The Owl and the Sparrow
by meggieeb
Summary: In the wake of the Copycat Murders, Hannibal Lecter is burdened with the task of taking a young girl under his wing. Ophelia Ford, a dance student with a dangerous past, has committed mass murder, but remembers nothing of it. Doctor Lecter, with the help of the Baltimore FBI team, must uncover her dark secret, all while keeping her from a gruesome fate.
1. Chapter 1

_When you're alone and life is making you lonely_

_You can always go... downtown._

Four dim fluorescent lights flickered over the mirror, cut horizontally through the middle by a ballet barre. A single CD player wedged in between a small locker and a portable fan blared "Downtown" by Petula Clark through the long room. All of the windows were open, letting the warm night air waft in.

_When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry_

_Seems to help, I know... downtown._

Poised in the center of the room, toes pointed and slender hands held aloft, Ophelia Ford focused on the space in front of her. She took deep breaths as the music continued, wracking her brain for the first movements of the combination she had learned just hour before. Why could she not remember? They were so simple.

_Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city_

_Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty_

_How can you lose?_

"Five, six, seven, eight," Ophelia breathed, her memory suddenly snapping back to attention. In a series of fluid movements, she leaped and turned, gliding through axel turns, barrel leaps, and handsprings, one after another. But then her bare feet slapped onto something wet on the floor, and her legs flew out from under her. She cursed, landing hard.

"Again, again," she hissed, hardly noticing the sticky wetness on her feet, hands, and now all up and down her back and legs. She started into the routine again, her brows furrowed and the bun atop her head beginning to unravel. A few specks of the stickiness flew from the tips of her fingers and toes and splattered onto the mirror. The room seemed to get darker, as if the four lights over the mirror were beginning to give out. It was, after all, the middle of the night. Sirens screamed to life in the distance.

_The lights are much brighter there_

_You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares_

Ophelia cried out in wordless protest as she slipped in the puddle again. She pressed her stick hands over her face and screamed, the sound barely muffled. Taking another, deeper breath, she wiped her hands down the front of her tank top and hoisted herself back up.

"Axel, barrel, axel, handspring... lunge?" Ophelia smacked her palms against her forehead, trying desperately to jumble her brains into order. Her face was now almost entirely covered in the sticky residue, but she didn't notice. Ophelia nervously clenched and unclenched her fingers, smacking them against her head again, as if she could pound the memory into her brain.

"Come on, come on..." Ophelia hissed at her reflection, "Remember."

The sirens were suddenly very close and very loud, and blue and red lights flashed in the windows of the studio.

_So go downtown_

_Things will be great when you're downtown_

_No finer place for sure, downtown_

_Everything's waiting for you_

As Petula Clark's voice crescendoed and the chorus of the song echoed through the room, the door flew open and a stream of men burst through, clad in head-to-to black, with helmets, bulletproof vests, and militaristic black boots. Ophelia fell to the floor again, but this time from fright. The men swarmed her, brandishing long guns in her face and shining flashlights in her face.

"Get on the ground! On the ground!" the men roared, drowning out Petula Clark and blocking the lights from Ophelia's view.

Ophelia cowered on the floor, below the undulating sea of men, her hands held up before her face. Her legs curled underneath her, and her eyes clamped shut as tight as she could make them. She could hear shouting. She could feel the heat of their breath all around her. And she could smell iron.

Suddenly, Ophelia was extremely aware of herself. The stickiness on her hands, legs, face, and back, and that had dripped onto the floor and flung onto the walls and mirror. A few droplets had even found their way to the CD player, which now seemed rather far away.

Ophelia looked down at the shiny redness that covered her skin and clothes. Her breath hitched in her throat as the rusty, metallic smell hit her full-force for the first time. It had begun to dry around her cuticles and beneath her fingernails. Dark red footprints criss-crossed the floor, all convening in one, central puddle where she had stood just minutes earlier.

But before her eyes could register the twenty-odd guns that were pointed at her face, her head hit the wooden floor and she was unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

The cork board was full of faces, all connected with red string to one picture in the very center. The picture was of a small, friendly-looking girl; blonde hair, big green eyes, a plump-lipped smile, and a litter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Seeing the picture in any other context, anyone in the Baltimore FBI office would peg Ophelia Ford as an all-around good girl. Maybe the type who enjoyed sushi, kittens, and ABC Family original television shows. The same went for the other smiling female faces on the board; all twenty one of them looked undeniably normal.

Three of Baltimore's finest stood around the cork board, their eyebrows furrowed and hands busily tracing red string and flipping through reports and files.

Head of Behavioral Sciences, Jack Crawford, stared at the twenty one faces on the board, reading the names aloud. His hands clenched and unclenched in the pockets of his jacket.

Special Agent Beverly Katz stood beside him, reading a police report filed just hours before by the Tempe, Arizona police department. She pursed her lips, tutting and sighing at the sloppiness of the report. Beverly was used to a higher caliber of work, but she could not blame these Arizona men. They had, after all, written this report at four in the morning.

And Alana Bloom, her brown hair pulled studiously away from her face, sat in Jack's enormous swiveling chair, flipping through the files of the twenty one girls on the board. Ophelia Ford's folder lay open on the desk, a picture identical to the one Jack was studying also laid to the side.

"So Ophelia Ford," Jack turned to his partners for the morning, "Twenty one years old. Born and raised in Phoenix, studying dance at Arizona State. The president of three clubs, on the honor roll, and golden child. Spotless record, am I right?" He looked to Alana.

She nodded, "Not so much as a speeding ticket. She wrote in her application essays about her favorite _charity_ to volunteer with. I don't get it."

"Neither do I," Beverly leaned against the wall, her eyes still focused on Ophelia's picture, "The report says that she was terrified when they took her in. Not the kind of 'feigned innocence' terrified, but the really, truly scared kind of terrified. Like she didn't know where she was."

"Read the medical report from last night again," Jack rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin.

"It says, 'Ford in an almost seizure-like state: dilated pupils, shaking, and shortness of breath. She is confused and scared, and continues to pound her head with her hands. Won't stop screaming. Three nosebleeds in ten minutes.' And then it goes into the crime scene," Beverly frowned and scanned the report again, for what felt like the millionth time.

"She's been quiet since she's gotten here though, right?" Jack started out of the room and motioned for Beverly and Alana to follow.

"She hasn't said a word," Alana sped up to walk side-by-side with Jack, "They brought her some food and water and let her get cleaned up. Maybe she'll be ready to talk now."

The trio wound through the long halls of the Baltimore FBI, remaining silent as the rest of the department buzzed about, eager for some action since the Chesapeake Ripper and the Copycat Killer had gone dormant. The incidents surrounding that case were still a touchy subject with all of them though it had been nearly a year, and they were surely all ready to get their minds off of it.

The first holding cell at the bottom of the seemingly endless flight of stairs down to what served as the department's "dungeon" was sealed shut, with two police guards flanking the heavy metal door. Through the slit that barely passed for a window, Jack could see Ophelia sitting at the far-too familiar chrome table, her cuffed hands folded politely before her. She stared at the wall blankly, almost as if she was sleeping with her eyes wide open.

Jack entered first, leaving Beverly and Alana to watch from the glass room on the opposite end of the chamber. His footsteps echoed around the room, and the sound of his chair scraping the concrete floor was a grating, uncomfortable noise. But still, Ophelia did not break her stare. She kept her focus on the air beyond him.

It was eerie, Jack had to admit. The difference between the sunny girl in the picture and the sunken face of the girl before him. He stared at her for a moment, waiting to see who would have to break the silence first. Jack quickly took a mental note of the bruises that ringed her neck and wrists, and that peeked out from underneath her hairline.

"Ophelia?" Jack gave in, leaning toward her, "Hi there. My name is Jack Crawford. I'm the Special Agent in charge around here. I'm the one you need to talk to. You can trust me."

Ophelia shook her head, her eyes still focused on empty space, "No."

"Why not?" Jack leaned back, clasping his hands in his lap, "You're in a big mess here, kid. But you won't be if you just talk."

She shook her head again.

Jack motioned for the women to come into the room, "The three of us are here to figure out why what happened, happened. We're all you're going to get. Beverly Katz," she nodded to Ophelia, a sympathetic smile on her face, "and Alana Bloom. Our job is to figure you out, but we can't do that if you _don't talk._"

Ophelia's head snapped to where Alana stood, and her gaze fixed so intently on her that Jack was convinced a hole would burn in Alana's head.

"You," Ophelia barked, "You. Alana Bloom."

Taken aback for a moment, Alana shooed the others from the room. Maybe she could get to Ophelia, girl to girl.

Alana sat, facing Ophelia, her face and voice as pleasant as she could make it, "He's not here now, so you'll just have to settle for me. You're a dance student, right? I could never get the hang of dancing."

"You know him, though," Ophelia refused to speak of anything else, "He's the one I need. Not Jack Crawford or Beverly Katz or Alana Bloom. I need to speak with _him._"

"But why?" Alana leaned forward so that her face was close to Ophelia's. Through the impassive mask of her face, Alana could see apprehension, fear, and emptiness. There was also something empty behind Ophelia's wide eyes. She was hiding something, that was certain.

Ophelia shook her head, "All that live must die, passing through nature to eternity."

"Shakespeare."

"We are the causes of our own suffering," her voice was mechanical, as if she was reciting lines.

"I have to admit, I don't know that one," Alana shook her head, casting a glance at the wall Jack and Beverly were standing behind, "But we digress. Tell me why you won't talk to anybody but him."

Ophelia shrugged.

"He's not a part of this department, Ophelia. He hasn't been for a while. I can't ask him to come back here after what's happened. It's not right, especially with such a volatile case still up in the air. Talk to me. From one girl to another. Tell my why you did it. Look, I'm not trying to pull any mind games on you here. I'll be as honest and open with you as I would a patient."

"I'll talk to him," Ophelia nodded, "I swear, I'll talk to him. I need to talk to him. You're his friend, right? He'll come for you. He needs to."

Alana leaned back again. Why was she so adamant about talking to the one person who had little to no bearing on her fate in the long run? She, Jack, and Beverly were the closest people she had to protectors. Ophelia had no parents to come and claim her. No aunts, uncles, or cousins, either. And there was no way she could deny what she had done. She was caught red-handed. Literally. So perhaps the only way to move along was to let her have what she wanted.

"Fine," Alana stood, "I'll call him."

Tears began to pool in Ophelia's eyes as her tense body relaxed and her jaw began to tremble, "Thank you. Thank you."

Alana met Jack and Beverly outside the thick metal door. They all looked equally confused; nothing about Ophelia made sense. She was erratic, emotional, and her mind was a sieve, holding onto only the most random bits of information. The trio hurried back to Jack's office in silence. Beverly was off to preside over a reconstruction of the crime scene, Jack was to meet with the Tempe police, and Alana had a phone call to make.

Once Beverly and Jack had collected their things and vacated the office, Alana rifled through her old leather bag, retrieving her cell and dialing the oh-so-familiar number as she absentmindedly came to stand before the cork board.

Her eyes were stuck on Ophelia's picture when he finally answered. "Alana Bloom. What a pleasant surprise."

"Hannibal? I need your help."


	3. Chapter 3

Ophelia shifted in her seat. In the past five hours, she had been allowed one bathroom break. She had been given a small plastic cup of water, and a piece of toast. The orange jumpsuit was hot and prickly on her skin, as if it had been worn recently, but not washed. Her hair was greasy and still speckled with blood, tied loosely out of her face.

Nothing mattered but the fact that Hannibal Lecter would soon be here. She wanted to see him. _Needed_ to see him, to finally meet him, with every fiber of her being. When she thought of what she would say to him, she drew a blank. In fact, she did not know much about him. It had just been ingrained into her mind that he was the one to speak to, and to get close to. And she did not question it.

The longer she waited, the more apprehensive she became. Ophelia began to pick at her fingernails and pull at the pieces of string that dangled from the rolled sleeves of the jumpsuit. The old thing smelled like dogs, iron, and sweat. Ophelia wished she could actually clean herself up.

In any other situation, she would have focused more on the "big picture" of what had transpired within the last twenty four hours, but the prospect of Hannibal Lecter made Ophelia forget the redness beneath her nails and the stickiness in her hair.

_Hannibal Lecter was coming. _

The door slowly creaked open, and Ophelia snapped her head up. In through the door strode a handsome, professorial man with light brown hair combed neatly to the side and a suave brown suit. Ophelia watched, her mouth hanging slightly open, as he made his way slowly to the chair before her, the dim fluorescent lights casting shadows across his cut, sharp facial features. She was suddenly very aware that she was slouching.

"I would stand to shake your hand, but..." Ophelia's voice cracked as she attempted humor. Relief flooded her as Hannibal had a seat.

He did not smile, "You are Ophelia Ford."

"And you are Hannibal Lecter."

"Correct," he stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, studying her face, "Why am I here, Miss Ford?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly found herself without a definitive answer, "I... I did a bad thing."

"I would say so," Hannibal smoothed the front of his suit and adjusted his tie, "Are you aware of just how many lives you took last night?"

Ophelia looked at the ceiling and scrunched up her face, "Fifteen? No. Nineteen. Twenty?"

"Twenty," Hannibal nodded, "Each and every one of your sorority sisters."

"Chi Omega," she scoffed looking back down at Hannibal, "What a joke. They don't know... anything. They don't know anything worth knowing _at all_."

"Tell me how you did it." Hannibal studied Ophelia's eyes. They were empty. She was clearly doing a lot of thinking, as if she was working hard to recall a number of facts.

"I..." Ophelia frowned, "ah... I put Xanax in our sorority mom's coffee. You know, sorority moms are there to make sure we don't die or whatever," she snorted, "But anyway, I put that in her coffee, I think, and she was out pretty fast. So I went to the kitchen and... and... I was in the dance studio. Covered in blood. It's hard to... the details..."

"Do you not _recall_ butchering twenty people?"

"All I remember was being so mad. So, so, _so_ angry at everyone. I just... I can't remember a lot of things. I really vividly remember being in the dance studio. I remember being on the ground, with a whole lot of blood... all over me." She nervously began to pick clumps of blood from beneath her fingernails.

Hannibal studied her again for a moment then asked, "Does your family have any history of mental illness?"

Ophelia looked at him like he had slapped her, "_No_ my family doesn't have any mental _illness._ My dad was the smartest person I know; he was a scientist. He worked in a research facility in _Phoenix_. Mental illness... no. Nope."

"No offense intended, Ophelia, I assure you. It was just a question."

"And I don't have anything wrong with me either," Ophelia's fingers began to twitch, "I don't have a problem. I don't have a mental illness."

"I never suggested that," Hannibal's face remained impassive, "But you do seem to have some problems with remembering things."

Ophelia shrugged, "I guess I do."

"Is this something that has occurred more than once?"

After a moment of thought, she nodded, "Yeah, actually. There are patches... missing. I just figured that was what I got for running three clubs, majoring in fine arts, and being a part of a sorority." She attempted a laugh, but it came out more like a strangled squawk. Ophelia suddenly felt rather nervous, as if Hannibal has placed her under an unusually large microscope.

"What are these bruises from?" Hannibal reached a large hand toward Ophelia's wrist, but she jerked away, nearly knocking her own chair over backwards.

"Don't touch me!" Ophelia cradled her hands to her neck, where other purple blooms had been since the night before. She did not remember where these had come from either, but she knew they held a secret, whatever it might be.

Hannibal held up his hands and looked down at the table, "I apologize, Ophelia. Why don't we take a break? You take a moment to rest. I would like to take this opportunity to speak with my colleagues."

Ophelia nodded, but said nothing. The same fear that she had felt the night before flooded her entire body, making her hands begin to quiver.

_What is happening to me?_ Ophelia covered her face with her hands and inhaled deeply and exhaling as if to expel some sort of demon from her body. She began to rub her bruises again.

Hannibal and Alana stood outside the door and watched Ophelia virtually fold in on herself.

"Well?" Alana looked up at Hannibal, whose stony face was still fixed on Ophelia, "It's possible that she has some sort of personality disorder, but-"

"No," Hannibal shook his head, "It's no disorder. Has anyone run blood tests? Given her a good, thorough physical examination?"

Alana shook her head, "Jack didn't want to move her until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with."

"Test her for drugs," Hannibal instructed, "Let her rest, eat, clean up. Get her out of that jumpsuit. No one wants it here, either. I will sit with her, attempt to calm her down and keep her calm while tests are run. I will need the results by the end of the day if possible, Alana."

"What are you thinking, Hannibal?" Alana recognized the glint in her old colleague's eyes. He was onto something that no ordinary man could see.

"I believe that Miss Ophelia may be under more influences than she is letting on. She exhibits all the symptoms of the first stages of withdrawal, as well as those of abuse."

"Her file," Alana handed him a thick folder, "She hasn't had parents for years. Who would be the abuser?"

"That is what I must find out," Hannibal nodded as he started back into the room, "But first she needs to relax, or we won't be getting anywhere."

Ophelia pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her hands around them as Hannibal took a seat before her once again. She prepared to be berated, punished, or given a fatal sentence.

But instead, Hannibal just smiled, leaning back and clasping his hands in his lap. He cocked his head to the side, studying her, drinking in every feature of her face. She fidgeted, uncomfortable under his piercing gaze.

"The name 'Ophelia'," Hannibal quipped, "A reference to Shakespeare, no doubt?"

Ophelia nodded, "Tragic, huh? Kind of has a reputation."

"I've always enjoyed _Hamlet_, actually," Hannibal shrugged, "His tragic lover was always one of the most fascinating characters."

"Never gotten that before," Ophelia snorted, "One time when I went to the gym on campus, a bunch of my sorority sisters pretended to drown me. Not funny, I know. Pretty unfortunate, is what it is. I guess my mom thought it would be funny."

"Perhaps she understood Shakespeare's genius, and thought it fit to share it with you."

"Sure," she was skeptical, but she had never thought about it that way, "Shakespeare's work is pretty great though. I was in _Romeo and Juliet_ in high school."

"And did you enjoy that?"

Ophelia shrugged, "I was the Nurse. I wore a fat suit."

"Arts are a passion of yours, or so I have been told. You are a dancer?"

"Yeah, yeah I am," she seemed to perk up a bit, "I study dance at my college. It's not like school, really. I just get to dance all day. I got all the boring classes out of the way the summer before my first semester. Did you know that I got one of the choreographers from _So You Think You Can Dance_ to come to the campus and teach a class? Sonya Tayeh. The one with the," she made a wild hand gesture about her head, "hair. Do you watch that show?"

"I'm afraid I have not seen it," Hannibal pursed his lips.

"Of course not," Ophelia laughed, stretching her legs back under the table again, "You're an _adult_."

"Tell me about your friends."

"All my friends were in the... the sorority," Ophelia suddenly went rather quiet, "When you're forced to live with people, you kind of have to get close, ya' know?"

"Quite true," Hannibal nodded, "Did you have friends outside of the sorority? Some of the others in your classes, perhaps?"

"I guess," Ophelia began to wring her hands, "I would always look forward to coming back to the Chi O house, but... sometimes it was a bit much. Being around all those girls all the time. They would always have these parties. I never really went to them; I would just sit in my room and practice or... or read. I got kind of into classical music for a while. But they would always make fun of me. I was the only one who wasn't," her voice suddenly became venomous and hollow, "so _superficial_. So _stupid_ and _insignificant. _I knew that there was more out there than sorority parties and 'keg stands'. Whatever. I guess I don't have to worry about it anymore."

"You don't," Hannibal agreed slowly, "What made you feel these things? When did you start to think so little of your sisters?"

"The word 'sister'," Ophelia grimaced, "should not be used to describe sororities. Friends, sure, but sometimes they took the 'sister' thing a bit far. They were great and all, but sometimes I would get away. I... don't know how, but I would get away."

"Where would you get away to?"

Ophelia was silent, as if the lines she had been reciting were not coming to her as easily. She shook her head and mumbled, "I don't know. I don't remember."

"Alright, then let's move on to something different. How about your family? Tell me about them."

"Well," and Ophelia had perked up again, on a roll, "my mom stayed at home mostly. She had done art in college, so she stayed home painting and sculpting and stuff. Dad worked at a research facility in Phoenix. Medical research. Lots of big words that I never understood."

"And where are they now?"

"Um," Ophelia grew quiet again, "Mom left. She found an artsy type from Seattle, and I guess she's still there. Dad... dad's dead. They never told us how. Experiment gone bad, I guess. I don't know."

"I am sorry, Ophelia," Hannibal reached his hand out, and for a moment she let his fingers brush against the sleeve of her jumpsuit. But when his fingers drew close to the bruises on her arm, she pulled away, banging her elbow on the back of the chair.

Just then, two men followed by Alana Bloom entered the room, carrying a bundle of clothes and a tray of food.

Hannibal left the room, letting Alana hand the small girl a pair of sweatpants too large for her frame, and an old white t-shirt. She left the guards to give Ophelia her food, hurrying to join Hannibal outside the room.

"She's so erratic," Alana shook her head, "It's like there are two different brains in there, fighting for control."

"Look," Hannibal pointed through the window at Ophelia, who was still changing into the grown man-sized clothes, "Look at all the bruises."

"I noticed," Alana nodded, "And see the bruises on her torso? Where the bruises would be hidden, they're centered around little welts. Look."

"Insect bites, perhaps?"

"Maybe. But look at the way she's trying to hide them." They watched as Ophelia's arms buzzed about, trying to shield the little splotches of red, blue, and purple as the guards helped her out of the oversized jumpsuit and into her clothes.

"Not insect bites, then." Hannibal and Alana stood in silence while Ophelia downed her small bowl of soup and her bottle of water within minutes. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, then looked over to where her observers stood. Ophelia stared at the door, unmoving.

"What do you think?" Alana looked up at Hannibal, his impassive face still on Ophelia.

"I think," Hannibal sighed, stuffing his hands in his finely tailored pockets, "There is something going on, more than she's letting on. More than she's even capable of being aware of."

"How so?"

Hannibal was silent for a moment, then he chose his words carefully, "Perhaps... she needs to be observed. Carefully. She loses memories. She is erratic. Ophelia displays all the behavior of an addict, though there is no way to be sure if that is the case until she can be seen by a doctor. She seems to be fighting within her own head."

"So, what should be done? Psychotherapy? If we don't figure something out soon, she'll be in prison for life. Twenty _people._ Alone. She's got to be some kind of neurotic."

"It's quite fantastic, how she achieved it," Hannibal nodded, "But there is more to the story. Perhaps she doesn't even know what it is."

"Then she needs to be observed."

"Yes," Hannibal nodded, "Observed and guided."

"But she only speaks to you," Alana rubbed her hand across her forehead, tired, "Whenever Jack or I try to communicate with her, she turns robotic. Unresponsive entirely."

"Then I will be the one to guide her."


	4. Chapter 4

"Most psychology departments are filled with ham radio enthusiasts and other personality- deficients. Some are pre-dispositioned to the romantic 'whims' of the mind. I could never find comfort among their ranks."

Hannibal talked idly as he led Ophelia through the great wooden doors of his home. She looked around, only half listening to what he was saying; she was far too preoccupied with the lavishness and modernity of Hannibal's home. She had expected him to hold a high standard of living, but had not expected such a display.

The kitchen and dining room had clearly been paid the most attention. While the sitting room seemed to be barely more than a hallway with a television and couch, the kitchen and adjoined dining room were the heart of the home. Hannibal even seemed to relax more in these spaces.

"I will fix you some real food," he turned and smiled at her, the first glimpse of actual emotion Ophelia had seen on his face since their first meeting earlier that day, "Why don't you make yourself comfortable? Your room is through the sitting room, up the stairs and the farthest room on the right side. I am sure you will be able to find it yourself."

Ophelia nodded curtly and hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder as she turned to leave the kitchen. A few faceless and nameless men had brought her a duffel full of the belongings she had kept in the room she had shared in the sorority house before she had been carted off to Hannibal's home. She had not questioned it; she had been glad to get out of the holding cell with its uncomfortable chairs and blinding lights.

The bedroom that she had been assigned was larger and nicer than anything she had ever lived in, though it looked like it had been thrown together in a hasty whirl. Perhaps Hannibal was not accustomed to having company.

The wallpaper was forest green, with vines and flowers of similar, subdued hues, painted on. The floors were, like the rest of the house, dark wood and virtually spotless. Her bed was pressed neatly against the wall, the headboard sitting underneath a wide window. The bedspread was silky and cream colored, and the red detailing matched the rug that sat before the dresser and mirror on the opposite side of the room. Ophelia nodded with satisfaction, tossing her duffel down onto the bed. She could get used to this. It was far nicer than anywhere she had ever lived, even if it had just been thrown together.

The next room down was a bathroom made nearly entirely of marble. Chutes of bamboo sprouted from a vase in the corner of the room, and candles lined the counter opposite the enormous tub and shower. Ophelia cracked a smile. She couldn't imagine the esteemed Hannibal Lecter lighting candles and taking a bubble bath. Perhaps this was also something that had been thrown together at the last second in anticipation of her arrival.

The only other room in the dark hallway was locked. The door was larger, darker, and much heavier-looking than the door to her room and the door to the bathroom. The handle looked as if it could be made of solid gold, and it smelled of fine finish. Perhaps this was Hannibal's room. Ophelia jiggled the handle a few times, but was immediately distracted by the smell of cooking meat and spices. She hurried down the stairs, the locked room all but forgotten.

To the strains of Bach's Goldberg Variations, Hannibal sprinkled some garnish onto a plate of steaming, juicy meat. Along with an offering of fried tomatoes and onions, the meat was gently simmering in a wine stock that pooled at the center of the plate on which it rested. Ophelia was taken aback for a moment; in such a short time, Hannibal had created dish only seen, and smelled, at gourmet restaurants.

"I'm impressed," Ophelia took in the smell of the meat as Hannibal slid a plate toward her, "Looks fantastic."

"I'm very careful about what I put in my body," Hannibal gestured for Ophelia to follow him into the dining room, "which means I end up preparing all of my own meals. It's turned into somewhat of a passion."

Ophelia took a bite immediately after being seated beside Hannibal at the table, "It's delicious. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Hannibal nodded, "I would like to apologize for the analytical ambush that you had to endure earlier today. But I know that I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that. So perhaps I should consider using my apologies sparingly."

Ophelia laughed, her mouth full of the decadent food.

"Or perhaps," Hannibal took a sip of wine, "we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friends."

"You wouldn't find me interesting, I'm afraid," Ophelia shrugged her head, only halfway joking.

"On the contrary. I'm quite a patron of the fine arts, something you are familiar with."

Ophelia snorted, "At the moment, all I'm familiar with is Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford."

"Dr. Bloom is the exception to the personality-deficients I mentioned earlier," Hannibal smiled, "I mentored her for quite some time, but I certainly learned as much from her as she did from me. But Jack Crawford... We see in different ways. That's all."

Ophelia sat in silence for a moment, staring at her plate, but not eating. She was deep in thought, clearly, her mouth twisting into a frown and her brow furrowing.

"Eat your dinner," Hannibal prompted, and she obeyed, still lost in thought.

Ophelia's eyes fell on a swatch of purple beaded fabric wadded into a ball on the chair opposite her. It looked like a scarf.

"What's that?" Ophelia pointed to it with her fork, a droplet of sauce falling from the tip.

Hannibal leaned calmly across the table and grabbed the scarf, "A friend's. Must have left it here a long time ago." Without another word, he got up from the table and took the scarf out of the room. She heard his feet clunking up the stairs, and the sound of a locking being turned. Within moments, he had returned, without the scarf.

"So," Ophelia leaned back in her chair, pleasantly full, "Why am I here?"

"Evolution," Hannibal cracked a smile.

Ophelia laughed, "Ok, yeah, but why am I _here_? At your house? Are you going to psychoanalyze me again?"

"No," he shook his head, "You are here because Alana Bloom and I agree that there is more to your story that you should be allowed to tell. At your own pace."

"Okay," Ophelia nodded, "'More to my story'. That awfully dramatic, don't you think?"

"Nothing is too dramatic, I think, for this situation. What's truly dramatic is killing twenty girls within a period of ten minutes with a butcher knife."

"Yeah, that is pretty dramatic," Ophelia laughed, but her face had darkened.

"Tell me," Hannibal swirled what was left of his wine in his glass, "How have you remained calm?"

Ophelia shrugged, "I don't know, actually. I do know that killing is bad, and I know that I've done a terrible thing. But... somehow it feels like it was what I was supposed to do. Like I was filling some sort of contract with... whoever. I don't know. I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn't feel guilty about killing those girls. And I realize now that it was wrong in so many ways, but at the time... it felt good."

Hannibal _hmph_-ed, and stood, collecting Ophelia's empty plate and retreating to the kitchen to clean up. Ophelia followed silently, contemplating Hannibal's question. She watched him as he cleaned, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows and his broad shoulders hunched over the sink. What was it about Hannibal Lecter that she had been so keen to hide behind? Ophelia knew there had to be a reason, but watching him work in silence, she could not find it.

"Tomorrow," Hannibal looked up at her, "I will be at my office all day with patients. It will be a long ten hours of appointments, but you are more than welcome to come along. If you choose to stay here, you would be locked in the building, whereas if you do choose to accompany me I will allow you some freedoms around my office."

"I'd like to come with you," Ophelia nodded, grinning, "It'll be interesting, seeing how you work."

"It's not as thrilling as you may think," Hannibal laughed airily through his nose, "My job, however important, is a lot of sitting. And listening."

"I like sitting and listening," Ophelia made to help Hannibal with the dishes, but he gently shooed her away, "I'm pretty good at it, actually."

Hannibal shot her a small, almost unnoticeable grin, then nodded with approval, "Be ready to go at eight sharp. My patients don't enjoy waiting."

"Okay, yeah," Ophelia looked at the clock, "Eight o'clock." It was eleven. She could get a good night's sleep and still have time to shower in the morning. With a quick, and slightly awkward, goodnight to Hannibal she turned and hurried up the stairs. She changed out of her prison clothes as quickly as she could, eager to get the smell off of her skin.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching as goosebumps began to appear on her bare skin. She dug through her duffel and pulled on an old t-shirt that she had been given her first day at Chi Omega. It just barely smelled like her roommate's overbearing Chanel perfume. Ophelia wrinkled her nose at the smell, but resolved to ignore it. She would be under the covers, asleep, within minutes anyway.

After reluctantly slouching her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair, Ophelia burrowed far beneath the covers so that only a small bit of blonde was visible. The sheets smelled like Hannibal, and for the first time in a while, she felt comforted.

Ophelia woke in a cold sweat. She lay atop the sheets, her limbs splayed out, unable to move. Her head was held in place, facing the pitch black ceiling above her. The walls and floors seemed to swim around her, leaving the bed stranded.

The ceiling burst to life, loud industrial music blaring through unseen speakers. An octagonal matrix made of small triangles flashed and undulated, and at certain moments images could be seen within the matrix: first a bright white light shining in a dark cave, then a messily drawn diagram of human muscle, and then a beating heart.

"EVERYTHING CHANGES" flashed across the screen in enormous red letters, accompanied by the rhythmic pulsing of the music. Eight antique coins fell from the top of the image, and as they spun and rotated they transformed into scratched and warped CDs.

And then the screen was nothing but an enormous bloodshot eye. It seemed to bore into Ophelia's skin as she tried to struggle free of whatever was holding her. The eye began to quiver and shake, and then was pulled apart, morphing into a scene of a faceless man cooking in a dark kitchen. The man lifted the knife in his hand, as if offering what was stuck on its end to Ophelia. She tried desperately to look away as the same bloodshot eye stared at her again from the tip of the knife.

"THE DEVIL WILL FEAST ON THE SOULS OF THE WEAK." These words flashed and pulsed, alternating with the image of the man cooking silently, the eye still twirling and blinking on the end of the blade.

After that, the sequence of images became random, flashing across the screen with no real meaning. First, an energy-saving lightbulb melted and twisted until it came to resemble a yin-yang symbol. Then, a beating heart appeared onscreen, and then was ripped apart by a pair of rough hands, which then morphed again into feminine hands. A body grew from the hands, a small, slender body, whose features were obscured.

But then the female figure had a face. Wendy Jones, first floor of Chi Omega. Blood dripped from the corners of her lips. Then it was Kacey Sawyer, room 4B. Blood flowed steadily from a gash in her chest. Emily Dinklage, her favorite sweater blooming red. 2D. Annie DeGroot. Marie Hanso. Bea Klugh. Zoe, Sarah, Raymie. Soon, twenty female figures swam across the ceiling, their figures blurring into one. The single figure in the center of the screen held a butcher knife in her hands. And without warning, it leapt directly toward Ophelia.

"You're dreaming! Ophelia! Open your eyes!"

Hands clasped her shoulders and brushed across her forehead. Ophelia struck out at the dark silhouette hanging over her bed. She made contact with a jaw.

The lights in the room suddenly came on, and Ophelia found Hannibal leaning against the wall by the switch, his hand rubbing his jaw.

"Oh... crap. I am so, so sorry," Ophelia struggled out of bed. Her legs were tangled in the sheets.

"Not to worry," Hannibal shook his head and stood up straight, his silk pajamas and perfectly combed hair unfazed, "Night terror. Can't say as I blame you."

Ophelia glanced at the clock. Three o'clock. She felt her face reddening as she hung her head, "Did I wake you up?"

"No," Hannibal assured her, "I was having trouble sleeping anyway. Thought I would make myself some tea to help myself along. Would you care for some?"

"Sure, thanks," Ophelia nodded, still feeling rather sheepish. She straightened her sleeping shirt and cotton shorts and padded after Hannibal down the dark hallway. As he did not turn on any lights, Ophelia had to feel her way along behind him until they reached the kitchen.

"May I ask what you were dreaming about?" Hannibal watched Ophelia in the dim light that he had flicked on as he brought a pot of water to a boil.

"It was just surreal," Ophelia ran a hand through her hair, "At first it was just a bunch of random, morbid... _gross_ stuff, but then it got real and terrifying and all the girls at Chi Omega... they were dying right there in front of me. It was the first time I really _looked_ at them and _saw_ them with blood on them and then a black mass came right at me and..."

"Suppressed memories, perhaps," Hannibal nodded.

"Yeah, maybe," Ophelia sighed, leaning against the counter, "There was a lot of weird stuff about people being eaten, too. Like an eyeball on a knife and a heart being torn apart," she blanched and stared up at Hannibal, "Did I eat somebody?"

Hannibal laughed, a deep rich sound quite welcome to Ophelia's ears, "No, Ophelia, you did not _eat_ your sorority sisters. Or anyone else for that matter. Your mind is just working on overload at the moment. It has the ability to manifest surprising things that often make no sense. Not to worry. You're safe in my hands."

Ophelia looked down at his hands as they worked, pouring tea out of a black kettle into small china glasses. It steamed and bubbled, the smell of mint and citrus wafting to the ceiling. They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea. Hannibal studied Ophelia's face. He watched as her eyes widened with subtle pleasure at the taste of the tea. She yawned and continued to drink, unaware of his eyes drinking her in.

"Eight o'clock," Hannibal reminded her, rising and starting toward the doorway.

"Right," Ophelia looked over her shoulder and watched him go, "Eight o'clock." Ophelia sat in solitary silence for a few more minutes. She sipped the tea slowly, taking the opportunity to really study the kitchen. The enormous refrigerator, with two wide doors and an entirely separate drawer for the freezer, took up the vast majority of the wall to her left. Beside it was a spice rack, on which most of the spices were labelled by hand. The countertops were dark marble, and were virtually empty, save a cutting board and a rack of knives. The sight of the knives made her stomach turn, so she took her tea into her hands and headed for her room.

A light flickered from beneath Hannibal's bedroom door. Ophelia stopped for a moment, watching the warm light flicker on and off again. She could her his voice, low and muffled, and the sound of paper being ruffled and flipped. She considered knocking; her hand was held poised and her knuckles ready to rap on the thick wood. But she decided against it. With a shake of her head and a toss of her hair, Ophelia retreated into her room. She slept soundly for the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Seven o'clock found Ophelia in good spirits. She rolled out of bed, feeling refreshed despite the short night, and pranced to the bathroom, bag in tow. Hannibal had already emerged from his room; the pleasant sounds of cooking breakfast were audible from downstairs.

Ophelia relished the opportunity to shower. Soap felt like the world's greatest invention; she had never felt cleaner after scrubbing every inch of her skin with the stuff.

As the smell of breakfast intensified, permeating the cocoon of scented lotion and perfumes that Ophelia had created in the bathroom, she pulled on the softest dress in her bag: a blue cotton frock with flowers embroidered on the Peter-Pan-esque collar. She paired it with a pair of simple black flats and an ankle bracelet that was made entirely of tiny silver flowers. It was her favorite, and only, piece of jewelry, and she wore it most often when she was dancing. The flash of silver always encouraged her to leap higher, spin faster, and turn more smoothly. Ophelia then proceeded to twist her hair up into a loosely braided bun and powder a bit of makeup on her face and over the bruises on her neck and wrists. She was ever so grateful that she looked like a woman again, and not a scraggly rat-child.

Hannibal's back was to her when she bounded into the kitchen, her hands fiddling with the curled tendrils of blonde that danced around her face. He was already dressed in a dapper suit, his hair combed neatly back.

"Morning!" Ophelia chirped, surprised by just how cheery her voice sounded.

Hannibal threw a quick glance over his shoulder, nodding cordially to her, "Good morning, Ophelia. How was the rest of your night?"

"Better," Ophelia took notice of Hannibal's curt glance. It seemed as if he was hesitant to meet her eye.

"Eggs Benedict," Hannibal turned quickly, sliding a steaming place across the counter toward her, "of sorts. My own recipe. Fresh squeezed juice as well."

"Awesome," Ophelia dug in immediately, her stomach nearly jumping up her throat to get at it, "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Hannibal laughed shortly through his nose, "Like I said before, I am rather particular about what I put in my body. And in the bodies of my guests, which I do not have often, I must admit. I suppose experimentation did the trick. And all the best ingredients, of course. I do enjoy cooking for my small group of acquaintances, though. They share my finer tastes."

Ophelia nodded, not wanting to talk through the enormous mouthful of food that she was chewing. She washed it down with the glass of orange juice that Hannibal had slid toward her, then watched him as he started on his own plate. He glanced up at her once, and her eyes immediately darted back to the half-full glass.

"Roses," Hannibal quipped before taking a swig of juice.

Ophelia looked up at him again, one eyebrow raised, "What?"

"Your hair," Hannibal took his empty plate and set it in the sink, glancing at the clock, "smells of roses."

"Oh yeah," Ophelia laughed, "Shampoo." She downed the rest of her juice as she began to clean up her plate and silverware. Hannibal watched her out of the corner of his eye as she stood next to him, scrubbing the remnants of her breakfast off of the plate and placing it delicately into the dishwasher. She was much shorter than him; the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He watched her sunshine hair bounce while she worked away, silent and surprisingly normal.

"Shall we be off, then?" Hannibal exited the room, making for the entrance hall where his keys, wallet, and appointment book were all neatly stacked on a small glass table.

Seeing as she no longer had a purse, wallet, or cellphone to call her own, Ophelia made her way out to Hannibal's sleek black car empty-handed. He held the door open for her, and she nodded politely as she slipped inside, the tinted windows instantly turning the inside of the car to night.

After a few moments of uneasy silence, Hannibal reached for the radio, flipping it the knob to the first channel that wasn't solely static.

"Tragedy has struck, folks. We just can't seem to catch a break, " the radio blared, "Twenty Arizona State University sorority girls were killed two nights ago, authorities report. No names have been released, but a suspect is said to be in custody at this very moment. In fact, those are the only details that have been released to the public, but the team as WKEZ one-oh-two point nine is here to keep you updated. You heard it here first, folks."

Ophelia felt heat rising in her cheeks and salty water pooling in her eyes. She looked out of the window, trying her hardest not to show her distress as Hannibal quickly changed the channel to a culinary talk show. And there for a moment she had started to believe she was escaping her fate.

As if Hannibal had heard her thoughts, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and assured her, "Not to worry. You'll get to tell your story. It'll all be fine in the end."

Ophelia looked back at Hannibal, who had resumed driving in silence. She shook her head and trilled her lips, accepting that, though she had committed the unthinkable, this man could help her. This man who, for some reason, she had been bent on seeing.

"Sure," she breathed. If, in one of her memory-lost moments, she had decided to trust Hannibal Lecter, she could do it now.

Hannibal's office was comprised of two rooms: a small waiting chamber, and an enormous, open, atrium-like space filled top to bottom with bookshelves, statues, and various works of art. Near the back of the room was his desk, a wide mahogany piece of work with books, papers, and folders tucked neatly into drawers and organized stacks. A leather chair sat in wait behind the desk, just the right height and width for Hannibal's tall, strong frame.

"No secretary?" Ophelia glanced over her shoulder at Hannibal.

He shook his head, "I've found that this is a rather solitary occupation."

In the center of the room, illuminated by two ceiling-to-floor bay windows, were two chairs and a table. One, for patients, was a luxurious chaise lounge. Across from it was a leather chair similar to the one behind the desk. Only this one was stationary and directly faced where the patient would be sitting. Beside that was a small table that Ophelia presumed was used to make notes on.

The upper half of the room was accessed by a set of stairs flanked with odd metal statues of varying shapes and sizes. These stairs led to a balcony overlooking the office, and was also full of books, art, and dignified-looking reading nooks.

"This place is so serious!" Ophelia stood before a particularly odd wrought iron piece of artwork. It looked as if it had been banged up at some point in its stationary life, "You don't play around, huh?"

Hannibal smiled down at the papers that he was shuffling through at his desk, "Not with my clients, no. The first of which should be arriving any minute now."

"I'll go up there," Ophelia started up the stairs, "Do you want me to... do anything?"

"No," Hannibal shook his head and looked at his watch, then up at Ophelia, "Peruse my selection of books, if you'd like. I'm afraid not much will interest you."

Ophelia started down a long row of bookshelves, running her finger along the shelf as she went. She stopped at a particularly thick looking book and smiled, "_Great Dialogues of Plato_."

"That's a bit-"

"'And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul? Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul.' Right?" Ophelia grinned, her voice turning mockingly dramatic and deep as her thumb traced the spine of the book.

Hannibal's impassive face turned dumbfounded for a split second, "That is... correct. Sorority girl turned philosophical thinker?"

Ophelia laughed, "Sorority girl who was bored enough to take a Greek philosophy class summer of sophomore year."

Hannibal chuckled and turned away from her as she plopped down into one of the chairs closest to the back of the balcony. She held the book open in her hands as she watched Hannibal open the door, letting in his first patient of the day.

The man was short and squat, with a kind of Pillsbury look about him. His shiny bald head could surely serve as a mirror if she squinted hard enough, Ophelia reckoned.

"Good morning, Mr. Burton," Hannibal shook the man's hand as they sat down across from each other.

"Dr. Lecter," the man chortled, "Please, call me Barry. Am I going to have to remind you every time?"

Hannibal cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with calling the man by his first name, "Barry. How are you feeling?"

"Well, Doctor, I'm feeling pretty damn tired right about now," Barry leaned back on the chaise, "The dreams haven't stopped any."

"Are they the same as before?"

"No, actually," Barry sat up again, "last night's was different. It was more vivid than the others. I woke up feeling so drained."

Hannibal nodded, "Tell me about it."

"Well, in it I'm a writer. That's accurate to real life. But I'm not a good writer in the dream. I've been having a lot of trouble, so my wife, son, and I travel to this old hotel during the winter months so I can be alone to work on my writing and earn a little cash on the side. It's so weird, there's all these ghosts and my kid and wife start freaking out because we get snowed in. And my kid gets sick and starts acting not like himself because, ya' know, there's spirits in the hotel, right?"

Ophelia frowned, furrowing her eyebrows, waiting for Hannibal to cut the man off. He was obviously messing with Hannibal.

Barry continued, "So then _I _start going crazy, too! I start seeing these ghosts, and some of them are having a goddamn _costume_ party in the middle of the hotel! And then, the ghosts must be real persuasive or somethin', because they convince me I need to take an axe to my wife and kid! Anyway, I get my hands on an axe and-"

"Excuse me?" Ophelia stood, leaning over the railing, "Hi, yeah, up here."

Barry and Hannibal both turned to look at her with equally perplexed expressions on their faces.

"Who's that?" Barry pointed to her, as if she was one of the ghosts he had so eloquently been describing.

"She-" Hannibal began, but Ophelia cut him off.

"What you're describing, that's literally the plot of _The Shining_. Like, exactly."

"Barry, I apologize," Hannibal stood, holding a hand out to Ophelia as if to urge her to disappear.

"No, uh, Doctor Lecter, hear me out," Ophelia began to descend the long stairs, "In the dream, did you, at any point, meet a guy named Lloyd?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I did!" Barry stared at her, astounded, as she approached, her skirt swishing smartly as she walked.

"Did he give you a drink?" Ophelia stood between him and Hannibal, who was still standing, his lips pursed, "Bourbon on the rocks, maybe?"

Barry spluttered and fumbled for words, "You're right! She's right!" He looked past her to Hannibal, who remained motionless.

"Sir, I apologize for interrupting your time with Doctor Lecter," Ophelia patted the man's sweater vested shoulder kindly, "But I couldn't help but notice your dream bears a striking similarity to the movie. Have you ever seen it? It's one of my favorites."

"I watched it last night before I went to bed," Barry shrugged, "But the dream was still terrifying."

Ophelia nodded, "One time I watched this movie called _Killer Clowns From Outer Space _when I was sick, and when I fell asleep I dreamed that I was in a corn field and clowns dressed like aliens started falling from the sky. Convinced myself it was real and couldn't let it go for days."

Barry burst into overly zealous laughter, "Oh, man, Doctor Lecter, this lady's a hoot! I bet she's right! I don't know why it got to me so bad, though. I really do have night terrors, though."

"Yeah, me too," Ophelia nodded, "sometimes. But I found that a cup of tea after those dreams seem to do the trick."

"You're a lucid dreamer, Barry," Hannibal spoke up, "Perhaps try a few nights without such films before sleeping and see how you do."

"And tea," Ophelia smiled sweetly, and Hannibal nodded curtly.

"Great!" Barry seemed thoroughly satisfied, though he had been in the office for under ten minutes, "Thanks a bunch, Doctor. You and your assistant are something. Next week?"

"Same time next week, Barry," Hannibal shook the man's hand all the way to the door, and after his bald head was out of sight, Ophelia burst into laughter.

"That guy was ridiculous!" she snorted, "Does he feed you movie plots every week?"

Hannibal was still for a moment, then he turned to Ophelia, his face a mixture of embarrassment and irritation, "How did you know such details about that film?"

"Everybody knows that movie," Ophelia scratched the back of her neck, suddenly worried that Hannibal was upset with her, "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to step on your toes or anything. It's just that he was totally spouting serious-"

"No need to apologize," Hannibal shook his head as he walked back over to his desk to check his schedule, "It was quite impressive, actually. I must admit, I am not familiar with that film at all."

"What?" Ophelia hissed in disbelief, "You've never seen... '_Redrum, Redrum!_' You don't know what that is? God, Hannibal, where have you been? Under a rock?"

He raised one eyebrow at her, "No..."

"Clearly you've been somewhere other than Earth for the past forty some-odd years!" Ophelia snorted, climbing the steps to the balcony again, "We're renting _The Shining_. Soon. And you're going to learn all the good quotes like every other functioning member of the human race."

Hannibal smiled down at his appointment book, "Whatever you say. But for now, I would appreciate it if you would let me do my job. Of course, if another one of my clients starts making vague pop culture references during our discussion, by all means jump in."

At first, Ophelia read his tone as angry and disapproving. But then, before he opened the door to let in the next appointment, he shot a toothy grin up at her. She giggled and buried her nose in the leather bound book, and remained there for the rest of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

When the clock struck six and the last appointment of the day had vacated the office, Ophelia still felt full of vigor, while Hannibal appeared to be worn down significantly. Granted, his suit was still pristinely in order and his perfectly combed hair had not a single flyaway, but his chocolate eyes said otherwise.

"I have an errand to run," Hannibal said as they locked the front doors of the office building, "It'll be a quick stop. Are you up for waiting in the car?"

"Yeah, sure," Ophelia flopped down into the car and settled back into the seat, "Where are we going?"

"A personal visit," Hannibal pursed his lips, and Ophelia figured that was all she was going to get out of him. They drove in silence for quite a while, out past any real suburban sprawl. There were glaring lights in the distance though, but she daren't ask if that was what they were headed toward. Hannibal's hands squeezed and twisted on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening and the veins in his wrists throbbing. Ophelia could almost hear his heart pounding against his ribs.

"You okay?" Ophelia began to bounce her feet up and down beneath the seat, the tense air thickening around them.

Hannibal nodded curtly, "Yes. Just..." he made a visible attempt to lighten up, casting a quick glance down at Ophelia, "a bit hungry. I appreciate your fondness for fast food, but I am eager to be able to get my hands on something other than a paper-wrapped burger."

She scoffed, dramatically flipping a strand of hair out of her eyes, "White Castle is a superior breed of fast food, Hannibal, and I wouldn't expect you to understand." For a moment, he sat in silence, open-mouthed, wracking his brain for a clever retort. But as they approached their destination, he resigned, chuckling and shaking his head. Ophelia mentally patted herself on the back; whatever Hannibal had been so apprehensive about had been momentarily forgotten. But after getting a good look at their location, the apprehension returned with a vengeance.

The building that they stopped in front of was a concrete giant, with tall electrical fences surrounding it and guards at each doorway. The building itself was isolated; its only neighbors were thickets of tall pine trees and underbrush. Hannibal parked the car and, without a word, left Ophelia alone. He approached a pair of the guards, and without any trouble at all, bypassed the electrical fence and entered the dark facility.

Ophelia squinted, searching in the fading evening light for any sign that would tell her where they were or what Hannibal was doing. She pressed her nose against the glass of the window, cupping her hands around her eyes. Amongst the trees, she could just barely make out a squat stone sign. But, alas, she could not make out a single word that was carved into it.

That was when she saw it. A flash of movement, a blur of sandy hair, the glint of a yin-yang pendant. A man stood amongst the bushes, watching her. With one hand, he made a motion for her to come to him, and with the other, the man instructed her to be silent. Ophelia squinted harder. She knew this man. There was something eerily familiar about him, something that Ophelia could not quite pin down.

Against better judgement, she wrenched herself free of the seatbelt and slipped from the car. Hannibal had forgotten to lock the doors. Ophelia hurried toward the man, paying special mind to avoid the gaze of the guards. But as she approached, the man disappeared into the woods.

"Hey!" Ophelia hissed, "Hey, you! Who's there?"

No response.

After a quick glance over her shoulder, Ophelia took a few tentative steps into the woods, following the rough-hewn path that the man had left. It was immediately much darker under the cover of the trees, and Ophelia had to take a moment to acclimate to the lack of visibility.

"I think I know you!" Ophelia called, a bit more loudly now, "Hello? I'm Ophelia Ford! I think I know you from somewhere!" An owl screeched somewhere above her, and her heart leapt to her throat.

And then, as soon as she lost sight of the car and the concrete building behind her, something large and solid tackled her, pinning her to the forest floor. An enormous hand clamped down over her mouth while another shone a flashlight down into her eyes. The blonde man was straddling her, his eyes wide and maniacal. The pendant she had seen from the road reflected light into her eyes as it swung down from his neck. She could feel blood trickling down her temple; she had landed directly on the roots of one of the trees that loomed over them.

Ophelia got a brief look at the man, which confused and terrified her even more. She could have sworn she knew him, though she was also sure she had never seen him before in her life. He wore a lab coat, the edges burnt and torn. His hair was the color of molten gold, but it was coated with ruddy clay-like dirt.

"Hey, sweetie," the man dropped the flashlight and reached into his pocket, "Got a little something for you here." He held a syringe in his hand. It was full of deep red liquid that undulated and bubbled every time he moved his hand.

Ophelia tried to scream, but the man's hand clamped down tighter on her face, cutting off her supply of air. She kicked her legs, for her arms were pinned beneath the man's titanic weight.

"Hold still now, and this'll go smoothly," he hissed, and with great difficulty he ripped open the front of Ophelia's dress, popping off most of the buttons and ripping the embroidered flowers.

In one deft movement, he stabbed the syringe into Ophelia's chest with a squish and a crunch. Her breath hitched in her throat and her entire body went rigid. She could feel the liquid from the syringe burning into her chest, like gasoline aflame. Her fingers and toes curled and her back arched against the man's hunched torso, and a strangled scream stuck in her throat.

Ophelia's vision began to blur, but she could still make out the man's face as he got up. He smiled down at her, confident in the knowledge that she wasn't going anywhere.

"Ok now, girly girl," he sighed, "That wasn't so bad, was it? No, it wasn't. Now I'm going to need you to not struggle next-"

"_OPHELIA!"_ Hannibal's voice boomed through the woods, and the beams of multiple flashlights shot through the darkness. Ophelia used the last of her strength to crane her neck toward his voice and let out a strangled, wordless cry. A set of guards burst through the trees before Hannibal, running toward where the blonde man had disappeared. Hannibal knelt beside Ophelia, her body still rigid and her back still arched.

"I've got you now," Hannibal put a bare hand over her chest where the syringe had just been, "You're safe."

And as he started to scoop her off of the ground, her body gave a final shudder and she went limp.

"Hannibal, 'Will Graham' is not a valid excuse."

The voice of Alana Bloom drifted up the stairs and into Ophelia's room. She could just barely make out the words beneath the mountain of blankets and pillows that had been piled atop her body. After a deep breath and an involuntary groan, Ophelia pushed the blankets aside and set her feet gingerly on the floor.

She looked down at herself. Instead of the blue dress that she remembered putting on, a large red button-down, collared shirt hung loosely over her frame. The tag in the collar was entirely in Italian; this must have been one of Hannibal's shirts. But why was she wearing it? And why was she so sore?

Then she saw her reflection in the mirror that hung over the dresser. The left side of her forehead and the area surrounding her eye was bruised and busted. Scratches raked down her neck and chest, passing through a great purple bruise that centered around a little red dot. The dot hurt the worst, and when Ophelia pressed her finger against it, the skin around it throbbed and turned a brief bloodless white.

"I know," Hannibal's voice was quiet. Ophelia had to strain to hear it.

"He's beyond help. I know you were close to Will, but he's just gone. You know I wanted to believe he could be saved. You know that."

"I do," Hannibal sighed after a moment of silence.

"This girl isn't beyond help, though," Alana's voice dropped, "You're right about her. There's more to be learned; we know that for sure now."

Ophelia opened her bedroom door slowly, wincing when it creaked loudly. All movement from downstairs ceased. She had been heard. Stiffly, Ophelia made for the stairs. She pulled at the shirt, bunching it up around her chest and willing the welt to disappear before she reached the bottom of the staircase.

Hannibal and Alana had stood up from their respective chairs, and were watching her descend the stairs, her movements heavy and pained. Alana stayed still, but Hannibal made a move to help her.

"I'm fine," Ophelia waved him away, "I'm okay."

"You're not," Hannibal pulled his chair around so that it was closer to her, "Sit."

"Good morning, Alana," she forced a smile as she sank into the chair, "Fancy meeting you here."

"Afternoon, actually. I'm glad to see you're still in the land of the living," Alana pursed her lips, nodding, "I should be going, Hannibal. They're still searching the woods."

"Alright," Hannibal glanced at Alana, "We will be here if you have need of us." He stared at the door for a long while after it had closed behind Alana. Then, slowly, he sat down in the chair that she had just vacated and looked up at Ophelia.

"Hi," she scratched the back of her neck, his piercing gaze making her squirm.

"Why did you do it, Ophelia?" Hannibal leaned forward, the muscles in his back rippling against his tight button-down, "What possessed you do do such a thing?"

"I knew him. I swear, I knew that man. I just... don't know from where exactly."

"I am trying to help you," he clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles turned white, "and you are making it quite difficult. How am I supposed to watch over you if I can't even keep you alive? Or keep you in one place for more than five minutes?"

"I'm sorry," Ophelia looked down at her lap, "I really am. I'm irrational, and stupid, and... and insane. It makes sense, right? Only a total crazy person would run into the woods like that. Alone. At night. I _must _be a psychopath."

"You're not a psychopath, Ophelia, although you must be attracted to them. You're totally functional, and more or less sane," he sighed, pursing his lips, "Do you remember at all what happened?"

"I remember running into the woods after that man. And then I remember hitting the dirt pretty hard. After that, it's all a bit fuzzy."

"Let me lay it out for you, then," Hannibal's voice was low, and his usually impassive face had a sort of frenzy to it that only appeared on the faces of predators on the hunt, "You nearly died. That man, whoever he was, pinned you to the ground, ripped open your dress, and stuck you with a syringe full of who knows what. You had a sort of seizure in my arms, then lay unresponsive for a few hours. I had gotten you back here before the violence started," Hannibal opened the top few buttons on his shirt and pulled it aside, revealing a set of what looked like claw marks raking across his shoulder and down his chest, "After a short period of violence, you entered a vegetative state, similar to the one you were found in at the dance studio a few days ago. And here you are now."

Ophelia stared into his eyes as he silently buttoned up his shirt again, her face reddening, her jaw clenching and unclenching, and her hands grasping her hair. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, then buried her face in her shirt, willing the emerging tears to disappear.

"I suppose this is partly my fault," Hannibal sighed, leaning back and running a hand through his hair, "It was me who insisted on stopping at that awful place."

"No," Ophelia shook her head, "I feel like that man, whoever he was, would have been wherever I was. I can _feel _it, like he would have followed me anywhere. How do I know him? And why would he do this? I just feel... so... _crazy_." She put her face in her hands and took slow, deep breaths.

"What's done is done," Hannibal stood, "Let us both learn from this, shall we? I will refrain from leaving you alone in strange, desolate places when you are prone to dangerous curiosity. And you will, from this moment on, stop chasing after madmen who look vaguely familiar. Yes?" He bent down beside her and placed a tentatively affectionate hand on her back.

"Sure, yeah," Ophelia looked up at Hannibal, who had forced a smile, "I really am sorry."

"It's over. Tea?" And just like that, he had forgotten it all. It was as if he saw cases like her every single day. She watched as he went straight into preparing tea, calm and expressionless again.

Before she joined him, she glanced around the room, lit only by the grey light of a stormy day. Everything was neat and orderly, save a new addition to the glass coffee table that usually was empty. Ophelia leaned over picking up the plastic case and turning it over.

"_The Shining_," Ophelia smiled, running her thumb over Jack Nicholson's face.

Perhaps Hannibal had been right on the first day of their meeting. Perhaps they could be close. Perhaps there was more to her story, something that could convince the world, and herself, that she was not crazy. Just an unfortunate victim of some greater plan.

"So," Ophelia stiffly made her way into the kitchen, "What are we doing today?"

"_We_ aren't doing anything," Hannibal said as he poured her tea, "I have an appointment to attend to today across town. You have an appointment with that movie you love so much."

"Oh, yeah, I saw that," Ophelia cupped the china full of steaming orange tea in her hands and inhaled deeply, "Thanks. You don't seem like a movie kind of guy."

Hannibal laughed through his nose, "No, I can't say I am. The theatre and opera are more my speed."

"Fancy," Ophelia raised an eyebrow as she sipped the tea, sticking her pinky finger in the air.

"Of course," Hannibal leaned against the counter and took a swig of his drink, then said, "I suppose I will have to educate you in the ways of high class entertainment."

"What, movies aren't high class?" Ophelia feigned shock, "Doctor Lecter, I am offended!"

"I suppose you will just have to convince me otherwise," Hannibal rolled his shoulders, a grin hiding behind his cup, "But for now I must be off. Can I trust you to stay put?" He set his tea down in the sink and shrugged his dapper jacket over his shoulders.

Ophelia nodded, "I wouldn't be insulted if you locked the doors. But you can trust me."

"Good," and with that, Hannibal turned to leave.

"Wait, I forgot to ask you something!" Ophelia leapt forward, just as Hannibal opened the front door, "Who's Will Graham?"

Hannibal was as still as a statue, one hand frozen on the doorknob and the other grabbing at his keys. The only movement came from his eyebrows, pulling together in a hard line. His mouth opened then closed again quickly, and before she could blink, he was out of the door and the lock was turned. Ophelia blinked a few times, shrugged, and returned to the sitting room, where a day of nothingness awaited her.


	7. Chapter 7

"Hannibal, do you remember when we discussed boundaries?" Bedelia du Maurier sat across from him, her legs crossed, and her foot fighting the urge to bob impatiently. She felt like a parent scolding a child.

"Of course," Hannibal nodded, "but the circumstances have changed entirely. The boundaries are different here."

"How so?"

Hannibal took a deep breath, casting a glance around the familiar space. He and Bedelia had engaged in many a discussion in these very chairs, and not all of them had been pleasant. He was sure this day would join the ranks of the unpleasant.

"Well," he began, "This instance has every possibility to be different. After learning from Abigail and Will, I understand how impressionable a mind such as hers can be. This is a professional endeavor to help a fellow human being."

"Let me stop you there," Bedelia shifted in her seat, "I understand that you may very well be trying, but your previous ventures into relationships such as this have turned sour in the end. Once again, you cannot pretend to function as an agent of friendship, or guidance, or whatever empathetic relationship you see this turning into. The simple truth is that this girl is a project."

"Perhaps," Hannibal sighed, "But in order to take up a project, you must have a sense of passion for whatever you are taking up. Correct?"

"True, but, in the end what is there to accomplish here? This is a fatal charity case Hannibal, and you know it. This is a prime case of capture bonding as well. It's been an animalistic survival tool for a million years. A passive psychological response to a new 'master'. You've turned this into a basic animal survival scenario." Bedelia du Maurier knew Hannibal Lecter better than anyone, perhaps even better than himself. She was always quite aware of his tendency to skirt the truth in conversation. He told many half-truths and flat out lies, and Bedelia could spot them in an instant. She knew of his God complex; he believed firmly that he could, essentially, play the puppet master with every relationship that he entered into. She also suspected that he took advantage of this in a dangerously obsessive way. Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs had been prime examples.

"If anything, I am helping her," Hannibal leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap. He cocked his head to the side, studying Bedelia as she recounted the details of Ophelia's case.

"Helping her by, what, proving her innocence? If that is your only goal, then have at it. But obviously there is more to the story. You're building a relationship."

"She is... gentle," Hannibal chose his words carefully, "Like a bird. A sparrow, if you will. Small, innocent."

"And in that way, quite breakable," Bedelia nodded, "But I do understand. In the wake of Abigail and Will I can understand your desire to overcompensate."

"Is that what I'm doing? Overcompensating?"

"In a way, yes. You seem to be acting quite out of character, Hannibal. You are the owl to her sparrow, in some ways. A predator. But in other ways, you could be a sort of nest. Protection. She obviously feels safe in your presence, and obviously believes in your intentions to help her. But is she _too_ innocent?"

"I don't need you to psychoanalyze Ophelia," Hannibal's tone was unintentionally defensive, "I truly believe that I can help her. By guiding her, or simply letting her act as a free agent, I intend to do what I can to keep her from meeting whatever demise she may face." Images of Ophelia, mangled and bleeding, flashed through Hannibal's mind. He inhaled deeply, willing the thoughts to disappear. Part of him was drawn to them; the idea of Ophelia laid out before him, her life cradled in his hands, was seductively appealing. Conquering her was certainly an endeavor that he would normally relish undertaking. But as he faced Bedelia's scrutiny, he doubted his desires. He certainly did not want to harm her.

"So instead of becoming a nest or a bird of prey, you are turning into a Holden Caulfield type character?"

Hannibal considered the question, gazing past Bedelia's blonde head and out of the window behind her. The sky was a tumultuous mixture of grays and blacks. In the distance, a fork of lightning cut through, turning them for a glorious moment a fantastic shade of purple.

"Not so much," he finally answered, "I am not attempting to confine her, to be her 'catcher in the rye'. My intentions are less selfish."

"They are?" Bedelia's voice dripped with skepticism, "Neither of us are convinced of that, Hannibal."

He thought for a moment, "What are you implying, exactly?"

"Your quest for companionship, paired with the lack of any ability to maintain it is what I am referring to. I don't blame you for it, but I doubt you have the capacity to feel such companionship."

Hannibal was silent, "She is innocent."

"The most innocent person you have come into contact with in your lifetime, apparently," Bedelia looked at the clock over Hannibal's head. Their time was almost up.

"Which is why I must guide her."

"Which is why," she sighed, "you must tread lightly. Your meticulously constructed persona must stay firmly in place, no matter what you end up choosing." She knew enough of him to see the truth. She always had.


	8. Chapter 8

The house was silent when Hannibal returned. He stood in the entry hall, waiting to hear movement or to be greeted, but the only sounds audible were the steady rush of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Hannibal shrugged off his coat and folded it over his shoulder, stepping lightly into the sitting room. So soon he had grown used to the sounds of another soul in the house; it was almost eery to be met with silence.

But there Ophelia lay, curled underneath a blanket on the sofa, her body still draped in his oldest dress shirt. Her long mess of golden hair fell like a waterfall down her back and over the edge of the cushion. Her fingers, barely visible beneath long sleeves, lay relaxed, one hand limp on the floor and the other curled beneath her chest. The credits of _The Shining_ rolled quietly on the television, casting a glow across Ophelia's face.

Hannibal relished this opportunity to truly see her, to truly study her. Ophelia's face was naturally cheerful; even in sleep she had a smile on her plump, pink lips. He counted the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and out onto her cheekbones. Her eyelashes fluttered as she dreamed. They were peaceful dreams, Hannibal hoped.

For a moment, Hannibal did know know what to do with her, or himself for that matter. Ophelia was so vulnerable, so innocent in her sleep. She quite resembled a baby bird or a newborn deer. Fragile, vulnerable. He had read in a book once that mammals only slept soundly in the presence of one in which they had placed complete trust.

_I doubt you have the capacity to feel such companionship._

Bedelia's accusation floated through Hannibal's mind as he watched Ophelia, her chest rising and falling with steady, deep breaths. He frowned, sighing. A voice in his head told him to prove Bedelia wrong, but he had never sought to defy her outright before. She had been the closest thing he had to a friend, though she would deny it. Perhaps Bedelia could be wrong. Perhaps Ophelia would be the companion Hannibal needed.

But did he _want_ a companion? He had been perfectly content functioning on his own. His agendas proved more successful when he was alone; Will Graham had been proof of that.

Still, Hannibal could not deny his urge to protect Ophelia. Keeping her close would do so while he, Alana, and Jack Crawford straightened out her case. The drugging incident in the woods had given them all hope that perhaps Ophelia was not in her right mind while committing the murders of her sorority sisters. But proving it would be a challenge, and Ophelia would not leave Hannibal's care until then.

Quite frankly, he was alright with that, though he daren't admit it aloud. He was safe within his own head. It had always been so.

Hannibal leaned down so that his face, ever expressionless, was level with Ophelia's. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Her hair still smelled of roses and her skin had a floral sweetness to it as well. It was overwhelmingly pleasant, like the finest of perfumes. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored its pull.

After basking in the smell for a moment, he carefully shimmied his arms underneath her and scooped her up against his chest. She sighed contentedly in her sleep as he stood, carefully making his way toward the stairs.

Ophelia's head lolled to the side so that her forehead rested against his chest. Her slender fingers grabbed onto the front of his shirt and held fast. Hannibal stopped for a moment, fearful that he had woken her. But she stayed still, her head resting against him and her hands holding on tight. He stared down at her, his eyes wide and wondering. For the second time, she rendered him unable to think, unable to move.

He shook his head. What had come over him? He was Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Immovable, impassive, strong. Solitary. Cold. Calculating. Bedelia had been perfectly correct. Hannibal Lecter cared for no one. There was no way he could allow anyone to penetrate that mask.

Hannibal took long strides to reach Ophelia's bedroom, setting her down and covering her bare legs with a blanket in one swift motion, as if all he desired was to be free of her feeble, trusting grasp. He willed himself not to look back at her as he retreated, closing the door with a _click_ that was full of finality.

Outside an owl hooted in the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

Ophelia sat, still as stone, in the leather chair at the front of Hannibal's office. She resisted the urge to pick at the frayed parts of her denim shorts, or trace the swirling pattern on her tank top with the tip of her finger. Instead, she stared at the wall opposite her, on which a ladder was propped. Hannibal paced before her, past Alana and Jack who had joined them. It was rather early; far too early for anyone reasonable to be awake. So naturally, the four of them were up and about, preparing to execute a plan that Hannibal had concocted out of nowhere the night before.

Jack Crawford held a recorder up to his mouth and muttered, "August twenty-third. Six a.m. Hannibal Lecter's office. Subject Ophelia Ford."

It was a clear late-summer day outside Doctor Lecter's office. The sky was still tinged with pink and orange, and the light of the sun reflected happily off the top of the brick buildings surrounding the office. But on the other side of the glass, where the small group had convened, the sky was much different. Dark clouds hung over all of their heads. All except Hannibal, who appeared quite content at the scene playing out before him.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Alana looked away from the window and at Hannibal, who had come to a stop next to her, his expressionless face on Ophelia.

"It is the only way," his dark green and blue checkered shoulders barely moved when he shrugged. He adjusted his tie and looked down at the floor. Alana turned back to the window.

"Okay, Ophelia," Jack knelt before her, "Do you understand what we're doing here?"

"Yes," her eyes stayed locked onto the ladder. She would not let fear cloud her.

"Explain it to me," he held the recorder underneath her mouth.

"Why?" Ophelia tried her best to keep her face blank, imitating Hannibal, "We all know what's going to happen."

"For the record, kid."

"Fine," Ophelia sighed, "Alana recreated the drug using the sample Doctor Lecter found on my dress. You're going to inject it into me and see what happens."

"Correct," Jack stood and continued to talk into the recorder, "The drug cocktail in question contains high doses of Scopolamine, Gammahydroxybutyrate, Methamphetamine, and large doses of caffeine. It acts as a stimulant, steroid, and a sort of mind control drug, to use layman's terms. Under the influence of the drug, Ophelia seems to have experienced a bevy of emotions, ranging from extreme violence to extreme clarity. Under the watch of Alana Bloom, Hannibal Lecter, and I, she may give us an idea of how it effected her and the murders she committed under the influence of the cocktail."

"We should begin," Hannibal interrupted, "While the subject is still willing." His eyes darted to her face, then immediately back to the floor. His hands balled into fists in his pockets.

Ophelia snorted, "The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go to sleep." All she was able to portray was a sense of false bravado. In truth, she was scared out of her wits, but she would never let them see that.

"This is the closest thing to torture I've ever done," Alana hissed as she passed Hannibal, retrieving the syringe, "I'm beginning to doubt the legality of this. I was with you the last time she was pumped full of this stuff, Hannibal. It's abuse. It's sadism."

"Ophelia trusts my judgement," Hannibal cocked his head to the side, waiting for her to confirm.

"Yeah, yeah I do," Ophelia nodded, her back quickly straightening and the bun atop her head flopping with the jerky movement, "I want to do what I can. Prove my innocence, and everything."

"Exactly," Hannibal smiled at Alana, "She knows that it's what needs to be done."

Alana sighed and rubbed her hands over her face, "You always did find the most unethical way of doing things."

"Perhaps," he turned back to Ophelia, who had closed her eyes, "But they have proved to be quite effective."

"Let's hope so."

Jack turned to them, "Ready?"

Ophelia nodded, her lower lip beginning to quiver. She told herself to be like Hannibal: calm, emotionless. Strong.

"Tie down her hands," Hannibal muttered, "and ankles."

Alana took to pacing between the windows and Hannibal's desk. She watched as Jack tied Ophelia down with four sets of cable from the closet in the corner of the room. Ophelia took deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. As Jack roughly tugged on the knots covering her wrists and ankles, she stared intently at the space beside Hannibal's face. He remained still, silent, and unmoving.

"Try to stay with us," Jack knelt before Ophelia, "Tell us what you see, what you feel, and everything you're thinking, alright?"

Ophelia nodded, "Yeah. Okay."

Jack looked from Ophelia to Alana, and then lastly to Hannibal, who nodded with approval as well. He tapped the side of the syringe, holding it in front of his face. The thick burgundy liquid laughed poisonously at them. Ophelia could just imagine it dripping from the fangs of a viper.

He folded her top up over her stomach and pulled a section of tanned skin taught with his forefingers; her stomach held the least amount of scars on her body. Jack took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to steady himself. And then, with a swift prick, he stabbed the needle into her abdomen.

The world around Ophelia froze. She felt her jaw wrench open, but Jack's hand, Alana's pacing, and Hannibal's tapping foot all ceased motion. Like clay cracking under heat, every edge in the room began to fracture, fray, and break away, leaving red-tinged blurs in their wake. Ophelia's eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs began to shake. Her back arched and her legs jerked inward, kicking against the legs of the chair where they were tied.

"Ophelia?" Jack asked, grabbing ahold of her shoulders and wrenching her forward, "Can you hear me?"

A strangled yelp scratched at Ophelia's throat. Jack took it as agreement, thought Alana and Hannibal saw it for what it was: a cry of pain.

"Who was the man who attacked you?" Jack tilted her head toward him, "Is he behind this? How is he controlling you?" Ophelia's eyes were still rolled back in her head and her jaw was wrenched open at an unnatural angle.

And then, she bit at him. The chair nearly fell over as she lunged forward, her eyes rolling and her arms cinched behind her. Jack fell backwards, scrambling away as Ophelia spat and snarled like a feral animal.

"Ophelia," Hannibal took a step forward, holding his hands out to her, as if in surrender, "Listen to my voice. You know who I am. You know who you are."

Her body fell back into a slouch on the chair. Her eyes stared upward, still whirring like the spokes of a bicycle. She seemed alert; as alert as one could be under such influence.

"Jack," Hannibal stepped back again, allowing him to resume his questioning. Jack got to his feet, brushed himself off, and approached Ophelia again, who was still staring at the ceiling.

"Ophelia Ford," Jack started again, "Agent Jack Crawford, here. You're in there, and I need you to tell me what you see. Why did you kill those girls? I know you didn't do it on your own. We're all sure you're not the type to do it anyway. So tell me. What's behind this? _Who _is behind this?"

Ophelia sighed through her mouth, then spoke, her speech slurred, "I'm not a bad person."

"I know," Jack agreed.

"You don't know," Ophelia's head lolled to the side, then back to Jack, "I'm a great person. I do so much for other people," She sounded as if she were just waking up from a rather lengthy and in-depth surgery, "My dad? Do you know my dad?"

"You haven't told us much about your dad," Jack said, "You told me once that he did medical research. That's all."

Ophelia blew out a heavy breath through her lips, "That's... that _bullshit_. My dad... my dad is a bad man..."

"What did he do, Ophelia? Why is he a bad man?" Jack looked back at Alana and Hannibal, who were at attention.

She seemed to mull the question over for a moment, then sighed, "Dad liked to make movies sometimes. Sometimes he made me watch them."

"What were they about?"

"It was just one in the end," Ophelia sighed, her head lolling back so that Jack was left to talk to her neck, "We are the causes of our own suffering."

"Sorry?" Jack took a step toward her.

"The Devil will eat the souls of the weak."

"Ophelia?"

"Everything changes!"

"Ophelia."

"Lying on your bed, looking at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen. Aren't you, Ophelia? Waiting for something to happen? And knowing all the time that you were meant for something better, Ophelia. Feeling it. Wanting it. Ophelia, Ophelia, Ophelia. You can help me get it. But how much can you take? How much can _he_ take, Ophelia? You'll find out for me," Ophelia's voice fluctuated in pitch and volume with every syllable, her head shaking back and forth as if she were trying to speak to two different people on the ceiling at the same time.

"Ophelia, who-"

"How much can you take before you snap?"

"Ophelia, who said those things to you?"

Her head lurched forward, and she was somewhere else entirely. Ophelia's eyes were wide and her nostrils were flared. She clenched and unclenched her fingers and leaned back in her chair, trying her hardest to pull her legs from their binds and to her chest.

"Get, get, _get_ these glasses _off_ of my face; I don't want to wear them anymore," she whimpered, pulling against the cables. She shook her head frenetically, small strands of hair flying out in every direction.

"What glasses?" Jack leaned down so that his face was inches from hers. She would not hurt him now. She didn't even know that he was there with her.

"They hurt my eyes. They hurt my eyes when the movie comes on, Dad!"

Jack turned to Hannibal and Alana, "I can hear her heart. It's going crazy."

That was when Ophelia started screaming, "No more needles! Dad, please! No more! No more! I don't want to do it! I won't hurt anybody! Turn it off, turn it off!" And then her whole body began to convulse. Not like before, though. Before, her body was moving on account of the drugs. But now, Ophelia's body was shutting down. She was panicking. She was remembering too much.

"Ophelia!" Jack tried to hold her head steady, "Alana, Hannibal, untie her."

"Wait," Hannibal stepped forward, pushing Jack out of the way, "Let me calm her down." Jack stepped back, letting Hannibal kneel before Ophelia.

"Please," Ophelia whimpered to Hannibal, "Please make him stop." Her pupils were so far dilated that only a sliver of mossy green outlined them. Little golden wisps flew around her face like a wonky halo.

"Listen to me," Hannibal stroked her hair and cupped her face in his hands, "Tell me where you are. And who you are."

"What?" Her pupils began to shrink as she focused on Hannibal's face. For just a sliver of a moment, he appeared to have great black antlers. Darkness swam around his head, charged with electricity.

"Tell me who you are."

"Ophelia Ford."

"Good," Hannibal nodded, "Alana, untie her hands, if you will. Ophelia, tell me where you are."

"Phoenix."

"Wrong," Hannibal shook his head, "You are in Baltimore, Maryland."

"What?" Ophelia tried to pull her head out of his strong hands, but he held her fast.

"You've been dreaming," Hannibal assured her, "You're in my office. Do you know who I am?"

Ophelia stared long and hard at him, her pupils shrinking with every passing second, "You're Hannibal Lecter."

"Correct. Now tell me again. Who are you? Where are you?" Alana had removed all four cords binding Ophelia to the chair. She wrung them in her hands, watching.

"I'm Ophelia Ford," she blinked, still unsure, Hannibal's thumbs stroking her cheeks, "and I'm in Baltimore. In your office."

"You're safe," Hannibal assured her. And then Ophelia was back with them entirely. Her breathing was no longer labored, her brow was no longer dotted with sweat, and her eyes were once again malachite green.

She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Hannibal's neck. Her fingers clasped onto the back of his suit. For a long moment, he let her, patting her noncommittally on the back and stroking her hair, which had fallen out of its ribbon and over her shoulders. As Jack made more notes on his voice recorder, Alana knelt beside Hannibal and Ophelia, stroking her hair with much more feeling than Hannibal.

"She needs to eat," Hannibal stood, allowing Alana to take over. She ushered Ophelia back into the chair and began to dab at the sweat on her forehead.

"We can take it from here," Alana assured him, "Take her home. Let her sleep, eat, whatever. She deserves it."

"Did I do okay?" Ophelia looked up at them, her voice weak, "Did I help? I know I lost it for a moment, but I got it back under control, I think. I tried. I feel sick, though."

"You pushed through it," Alana squeezed her hand, "I think this is going to be a game changer. Great job, Ophelia."

"We'll let you know as soon as we," Jack glanced at Ophelia hastily as he joined the small group, "find anything. On her father. It's obvious he's behind this in some way. We'll start by searching Phoenix directories and go from there."

"Okay," Alana followed Jack toward the door, "Hannibal, we'll be in touch."

"Please do," Hannibal shut the door behind them, his face serene. Before he turned back to face Ophelia, he collected himself. Below the surface, serenity was a thing of pure imagination.

"Could we go?" Ophelia tried to stand, wobbling sickly, "Please? I'm kind of hungry."

"Of course," Hannibal kept his composure, though it was difficult, "Let me help you." He hastened over to where she teetered like a foal feeling its legs for the first time. She grabbed onto the sleeve of his jacket and took a few steps forward. After a few more steps, Ophelia's knees buckled and she let out a barrage of halfhearted curses.

"Sorry," she hoisted herself back up, using Hannibal's sleeve again. This time as she walked, Hannibal rested his hand on the small of her back, flinching a bit every time she stumbled. She truly did look as if she could fall over any minute and sleep for days, as she had only a week before.

They were silent in the car, mostly because Ophelia was fighting sleep. Her body felt like lead, and her head an enormous anchor, holding it to the window of Hannibal's car.

"You've done an excellent job," Hannibal conceded, "It must have been hard on you. But this voluntary service is what may be the missing puzzle piece that Alana and Jack Crawford needed."

"I hope so," Ophelia sighed, "It had better be worth it." She cradled her stomach, flinching when her fingers found the place that Agent Crawford had injected her. A spot of blood had seeped through her shirt there. At least it had been an old shirt.

They ate in a long silence perpetuated by Hannibal. He fixed her a quick meal, forcing her to eat while he ate across the table. For the first time in a while, he felt guilt; every once in a while she would glance up at him from her bowl of soup, but would immediately go back to silently sipping the broth when she saw that he was watching her.

Hannibal licked his lips, his brow furrowed and his resolve wavering, "Alana Bloom could use a friend, I feel. As could you."

"What?" Ophelia muttered through her food.

"The opera is opening a new show in a week," Hannibal set his silverware down, kicking himself beneath the table, "You should come along. It would do you good to socialize with people other than the FBI and a psychiatrist."

Ophelia shrugged, "I like you, though. And Alana. Not too sure about Jack, though."

Hannibal laughed curtly, "Everyone feels that way, I believe. But it would still be beneficial for you to get out. Experience some culture outside films on my couch and books concerning the philosophies of Plato."

"Sure," Ophelia nodded, trying her hardest to remain alert through the conversation, though her eyelids were insisting upon closing, "Never been to an opera before."

"I usually entertain a small group of guests afterwards," Hannibal picked up his silverware again, a smile playing on his lips. He relished nothing more than the times he spent cooking for his small group of acquaintances. Perhaps it would lighten the dreary mood of the house. Cooking always seemed to do that for Hannibal; each room was alight with aromas while the sounds of Bach and Mozart aided in the creative culinary process. Just thinking of it put Hannibal in a much better mood.

"I could help you cook if you wanted," Ophelia rolled her shoulders, noting his immediate change in mood.

Hannibal looked down at his bowl, choosing to stay silent. He was unsure of whether or not Ophelia should be allowed to disturb the sanctity of the kitchen.

"Why don't you get some rest," Hannibal sighed, changing the subject quickly, "You and I have a full day of appointments tomorrow."

Ophelia rolled her eyes and forced a laugh, "Oh, fun! More Plato for me, then."

"I guess so," Hannibal stared down the length of the mahogany table at Ophelia, letting a minuscule smile slip across his face, "But for now, sleep."

He helped her up the stairs; her legs still seemed to be made of gelatin now, instead of lead. Once she was safely in her room, he relaxed, shrugging off his jacket and shoes and padding down the stairs to the kitchen. He cleaned in silence, imagining Ophelia working alongside him. Cutting the meat, washing the vegetables, or even simply setting the table. Something about the image of Ophelia working with food excited him. Perhaps she would share his passion for exotic culinary tastes.

After all, he did quite enjoy having friends for dinner.


	10. Chapter 10

Ophelia sat in Hannibal's office, her legs dangling over the edge of the balcony and a book in her hands. Having finished the book on Plato, she moved on to lighter fare: a book of nordic folk tales and legends. It was rather dark reading for a sunny Tuesday, but she supposed it fit in well with the overall atmosphere of the office.

"But Doctor Lecter," the small, plump man on the chaise lounge complained, "I'm still losing time. I'm still flashing from place to place in my head like I fell asleep and woke up somewhere."

"I once had a friend who suffered from your problem," Hannibal said, smoothing the front of his brown suit, "All he did to solve it was keep track of himself."

"How did he do that?"

Hannibal handed the man the leather book that sat closed on the table beside him, "A journal. Keep a log of every-" He was cut off by a _crack_ and a _plop_ outside the window. The three of them jumped, and Ophelia dropped her book face up on the chapter detailing the Nordic creature Dvalinn, the stag that "ate the World Tree". She leapt to her feet and hurried down the stairs, past her book, and to the window, which was now splattered with blood.

Ophelia pressed her face against the glass, "It was a bird. Oh, no." Her heart sank at the sight of the crumpled ball of bloody feathers in the grass outside the window.

Hannibal joined her, leaving the squat man behind, "A sparrow. Died instantly, I would imagine. Most likely disoriented by the sunlight."

"I'll take care of it," Ophelia's voice was small. She felt a mighty sadness for the bird. As Hannibal returned to his patient, Ophelia stepped out into the cool late summer air. It was cooler than it had been in the past weeks; Ophelia relished the opportunity to wear her favorite sweaters. Over the years, she had acquired a collection of oversized sweaters for days like these, when the air had a bite to it, and the wind seemed bent to have its way. It was especially cold now, what with the death of the poor sparrow.

Ophelia pulled her hands from the long sleeves of her grey sweater and knelt down by the tiny brown bird. She tenderly turned it over so that she could examine it. The poor thing's body was riddled with cuts. One particularly large gash covered its throat; it was still dribbling blood onto the grass. Ophelia looked up at the window where it had made contact, then up at the sky, judging where it must have flown from. She looked across the street, and squinted at the trees, attempting to discern whether or not its nest was nearby.

"No matter," she sighed, taking it into her hands and standing, "You're done for now anyway, little bird. Sorry it had to end this way for you."

Ophelia carried it back into the office and, ignoring the disgusted protests of the spindly woman who had just entered, carried it through the room and to the closet in the back, where she retrieved an empty shoebox and a marker.

"What are you doing?" Hannibal asked, watching her as his patient collected herself.

"Gotta bury it," Ophelia looked up at Hannibal as if the answer had been obvious.

"Ugh," the woman tittered, "How can you touch that thing?"

Ophelia frowned, "It's dead. It's not going to peck at you or anything."

"But the germs. It's disgusting. You're a gross little girl, aren't you?" The woman fluffed the furry collar of her oversized coat, turning up her beak-like nose at Ophelia's mock funeral procession.

"Well you're rude old woman," Ophelia took a step toward the shrew, her voice snapping, "I hate rude people." Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw Hannibal smirk.

The woman rolled her eyes and shooed Ophelia away. Not wanting to ruin the appointment any further for Hannibal, she hurried outside, box, bird, and marker in hand.

Ophelia plopped down outside the window and set out the preparations for the bird funeral. With her hands, she began to tear at the ground, digging a hole large enough for the box. Once her hands and her jeans were thoroughly covered in thick brown dirt, Ophelia began to decorate the shoebox, covering it with little flowers, hearts, and swirls.

After she sat the bird in the box and replaced the top, she sighed, "I guess I should name you... Clarice. You were a cute little bird, Clarice. Your feathers were the brownest of them all, I'm sure," Ophelia looked at her hands, "I've never talked at a bird funeral before, but I was the last one to speak to you, I think. I guess it's appropriate."

"Excuse me," a languid voice startled Ophelia, "What are you doing?"

Ophelia looked up at the redheaded woman who had suddenly appeared and now stood over her, "Um, I'm burying this bird. It flew into the window."

"Why?" the woman flipped a curl out of her face, "It's just a bird." She was a smartly dressed woman, with a sharply inquisitive face and a load full of books and notepads in her arms and protruding from her oversized purse.

Ophelia shrugged, "Got nothing better to do, I guess."

"You were in Hannibal Lecter's office?" she peered over Ophelia's head and through the window at Hannibal, who had not looked away from his patient.

"Yeah," Ophelia stood, leaving the box uncovered in the makeshift grave, "Who are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Freddie Lounds," she held out her hand, but retracted it immediately, remembering the state of Ophelia's hands, "I'm a colleague of Doctor Lecter's."

"Oh," Ophelia shook the dirt from her palms and kicked a bit of dirt into the grave, "He never mentioned you. But I _have _heard your name somewhere before."

"I'm a journalist," Freddie scrutinized Ophelia's face, "Maybe you've read one of my articles." She cocked her head to the side, continuing to read every inch of Ophelia's expressions.

Ophelia shrugged, "Maybe." She sat back down by the grave, smoothing the dirt over the box.

"You're Ophelia Ford, right?" Freddie knelt by Ophelia, her eyes burning, "You're that girl from Arizona."

"How do you know who I am?" Ophelia was taken aback. She had been under the impression that only Hannibal, Alana, and the others at the FBI knew who she was or where she was from. Or what she had done.

"I work very closely with someone in on your investigation. They're concerned about you."

"Who? Alana Bloom?"

Freddie shook her head, "She always seemed a little too... straight laced for me. Afraid to get her hands too dirty, ya' know?"

"I guess," Ophelia shrugged, absentmindedly wiping her hands on her pants, "But if you're a journalist, does that mean-"

"I'm not going to write about you, if that's what you're thinking," Freddie sighed, "Normally I would, but this is a favor to a friend. What I _am_ going to do is help you."

"Help me how?"

"How's life in the Lecter household?" she changed the subject without missing a beat.

"Fine," Ophelia shrugged.

"Food's good?" Freddie cocked her head to the side, her eyes squinting so that they were pressed into hard lines.

She nodded.

"Any weird people hanging around?"

"Nope. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Freddie sighed, "Doctor Lecter has some interesting friends, though. I would try to stay away from their crowd if I were you."

"Is Hannibal in some kind of trouble, Ms. Lounds?" Ophelia stood, and Freddie rose with her. It sounded as if Freddie was attempting to put Hannibal under a microscope, and she did not like it.

"No, no, no. Of course not," she dug through her purse for a moment, retrieving a small slip of paper, "This is my card. Whenever you feel like getting out of the house, hanging out, whatever, give me a call. If anything weird happens, you give me a call then, too. 'Kay?"

"Sure," Ophelia nodded slowly, slipping the card into her pocket.

Freddie turned to leave, but stopped, nodding toward the front window of the shop across the street, "Do you know that guy? He's been watching you bury that bird for a while now." Freddie shrugged. And with that, she was off, strutting down the sidewalk, her heels clicking on the concrete.

Ophelia squinted at the window across the street. Through the tinted glass, she could just barely make out a figure. It was tall, blonde, and scowling. Ophelia froze. _He_ was here_. He _had been watching her this whole time. She scrambled back inside.

"Ophelia?" Hannibal stood as she barreled through the door, "Are you alright?" The office was empty; he had just finished the last appointment of the day and was filing some papers at his desk.

"He's out there!" Ophelia wheezed, clutching the front of her sweater with her dirty hands, "He's been watching me since I went out. Freddie Lounds stopped to talk to me- she said you know her- and she noticed him, too. He's still out there right now!"

"Calm," Hannibal stood, holding his hands out to her, "Speaking of your father, I have just received quite a bit of information from Jack Crawford that you will want to see. We need to get you home."

Ophelia nodded. Hannibal rushed to her side, keys in hand. He escorted her out of the building and directly to his car, ever aware of what surrounded them. Once the car started, Hannibal locked the doors.

"Read these," Hannibal thrust a manilla envelope full of papers into Ophelia's lap as he began to drive, "Reports from Jack Crawford's team."

Ophelia flipped through the thick stack of papers. Some were emails, some were diagrams, and some were hastily scanned pictures of dark, dank rooms.

_Doctor Lecter,_ one of the emails read, _We have concluded that Ophelia's father, Thomas Ford, has been using the resources given to him by the Phoenix Research Center to explore the Neo-Nazi practice of "mind control". Enclosed you will find images of his laboratory as well as a room that acts as an experimental theatre, which contains a projector, a chair with restraints, and a cabinet full of LED glasses. Presumably, these are the glasses to which Ophelia referred last Wednesday. We also found a trash bin full of discarded syringes which still contained small amounts of the drug cocktail._

Ophelia scrutinized the picture of the "theatre", as Jack had called it. The restraints on the chair were dotted with blood. Her blood.

Another message read, _Alana has watched the film a few times. I will rely on her to relay its contents to you, but I can tell you that, combined with the mixture Ophelia was given, it isn't hard to see how she did what she did. This seems to be a close model of Auschwitz's facility, and more specifically, German doctor Eduard Wirths. Perhaps it would do you and Ophelia some good to read up on his techniques. You described a dream to me that Ophelia had on her first night at your home; it is almost exactly the same as Thomas's film. Frame for frame, it seems like it's been implanted in her mind. Maybe that was the intent._

"See?" Hannibal said as the car stopped in front of his house, "You aren't crazy, Ophelia. Just under an influence. I suspected that may have been the case."

Ophelia nodded, "I remember this place. Thomas... Dad used to have me spend entire school holidays here."

"If this doesn't prove your innocence, I don't know what will," Hannibal unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed from the car, leaving Ophelia to scramble after him, the envelope clutched to her chest and the picture of the film room still grasped tightly in her hands.

"But I barely remember any of it," Ophelia shut the front door behind her as Hannibal hung his coat on the rack, "It comes back in spots, but if you asked me to tell you everything all the way through, I couldn't."

"That's quite alright," Hannibal continued through the sitting room and into the kitchen where he immediately began to pull raw meats from the freezer, "We got all we needed when you went under on Wednesday."

Ophelia nodded, satisfied, "Good. But my Dad is still out there."

"You are safe here," Hannibal set his knife down and looked up at Ophelia, sincerity on his face, "You are safe with _me_."

"Yeah," Ophelia scratched the top of her head and sighed, "Do you need help?"

Hannibal shook his head, "I have dinner handled, I believe. You should read Jack Crawford's messages, though."

Ophelia lumbered upstairs, heading immediately for the bathroom. She ran a hot bath and filled it with rose scented bubbles, laying out all of the documents on the tile floor. She let the bubbles cover her entirely as she read every word on every page. As she read and reread the accounts, little pieces of memory fell into place. People who had not perviously existed in her memory suddenly existed again. She remembered her roommate, Teresa, and the loud girl down the hall who brought a new boy to her room nearly every night. She remembered her favorite dish at her favorite restaurant. Hours and hours of dance classes slowly trickled back as Ophelia read Agent Crawford's accounts of the university. He had covered every expanse of her life, and for once she was thankful for his obsessive thoroughness.

Hannibal knocked at the bathroom door and cleared his throat, "Dinner."

"Coming, coming," Ophelia hopped out of the tub, bubbles still covering her bare skin, "Let me just grab a towel."

She opened the door to Hannibal, his eyes squinting and his lips pursed, as if he had expected her to open the door in the nude. He relaxed when he saw that she was fully wrapped in a towel.

"Get a good night's sleep," he commanded, "Alana will be here to pick you up in the morning. It will be a late night, to be sure."

Ophelia grinned, taking the plate of steaming food from Hannibal's hands, "Can't wait. See you in the morning then?"

Hannibal nodded curtly, his eyes darting from the towel, to her face, and back again. Then, he turned and strode off, his feet clunking loudly as he made a point to get away quickly. Ophelia had to look down at herself to be sure she was covered. She licked her lips as the scent of the meal in her hands filled her nose, and retreated into the bathroom, resolving to eat her meal amongst the bubbles and think of only happy things.

She thought of the "girls' day" that Alana had arranged for the next day, leading up to the night at the opera. In reality, Hannibal had arranged it. Perhaps it was to get Ophelia off of his hands for a day. She couldn't blame him, though; it was clear Hannibal was unsure of how to deal with a college kid. A _girl_, no less. Alana had seemed surprisingly compliant with the plan; perhaps she needed a friend just as badly as Ophelia did. Sure, Hannibal was... interesting, but he was quite an enigma. On the surface, he was calm, cool, and collected. But it was as if there was something deeper underneath the surface. Bubbling, and ready to boil.

"Just like these bubbles," Ophelia smiled to herself, blowing on the pinkish froth and watching it fly.

Maybe he was sad. For all Ophelia knew, he had always been alone. Perhaps she was the first person to ever give him the time of day, or at least anything more than the basic psychiatrist to patient relationship. He seemed so very alone.

Ophelia had an idea. She shuffled into her bedroom and to the alarm clock beside her bed. After setting it to five, fighting the urge to change it back to a reasonable time, she wriggled under the covers. Staring up at the ceiling, she wracked her brain for any and every recipe she had ever read. The only thing she was confident with was pancakes. Surely she could pull off bacon and eggs as well. Especially with the bounty of ingredients that Hannibal had at his disposal.

"Does Hannibal even like pancakes?" she hissed to herself. It would have to do, she supposed. It was no filet mignon, but it would fly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Quick Author's Note: I would like to give a MAJOR shout out to the Mystery Guest Reviewer, aka Vany. You're super fantastic, and your reviews are what keep me writing! Thank you so very, very much. Also, thank you very much to everyone else who has given me such wonderful feedback. All of it puts an enormous smile on my face.**

"Dammit!" Ophelia's voice woke Hannibal early. He rolled over and glanced at the clock. It was just past six. There was a pop and a clang and more cursing from downstairs.

"You're awake?" Hannibal muttered, slipping out of bed, his voice gravelly and his usually combed hair scruffy and wild. He flipped on the light, quickly slipping on a shirt and straightening his pajama bottoms. Normally, Hannibal would never allow anyone to see him so disheveled, but his curiosity had gotten the better of his sensibilities.

Careful not to make too much noise, Hannibal slipped out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Fast paced music with a pounding beat blared through the speakers of the radio as Ophelia darted from the countertop to the stove, and back to the countertop again. The fingers on her left hand were red and splotchy, as if she had been burned.

She was already fully awake, dressed in a pair of torn old jeans and a shirt that slouched off of her shoulders. Her golden hair was pulled up into a messy knot at the top of her head, a red bow holding it in place.

Hannibal watched from the doorway as Ophelia sunk into a deep plié in front of the stove while she flipped a pancake over in the skillet and prodded the sizzling pan full of bacon next to them. She lifted herself up into third position then, as she leaned over to spoon scrambled eggs onto two identical plates. And, ever dancing, she divvied up an enormous stack of pancakes and equally large slices of bacon.

"Breakfast?" Hannibal fought the grin that was fighting to show itself on his steely face.

Ophelia jumped, nearly dropping the spatula that she had been using to stack pancakes, "Oh! Good morning! Yeah, I hope you like pancakes, because they're huge. The eggs and bacon are normal, though."

"You burned yourself," he gestured to the fingers on her left hand, leaning against the counter.

"Bacon grease," Ophelia slid a plate stacked with food toward him, "Well, it's not really bacon. I sliced up some of the meat in your fridge and used that. So, technically, it's bacon. But this tastes better, I think, whatever it is. Elk, maybe? I had that once."

"You have good taste," Hannibal poked his fork into the pancakes and took a bite. They were fluffy and tasted a bit like cinnamon. The eggs were cheesy and soft, mixed in with chunks of the same meat that the bacon was made of.

"And it is indeed elk," Hannibal continued, taking a sip of the orange juice that Ophelia slid toward him, "Killed him myself. It was an exhilarating hunt that I took during an extended stay in Wyoming."

Ophelia snorted, "Okay, what can't you do?" She took a hearty bite of the pancakes, and it was obvious that she was pleased with herself.

"I admit," Hannibal allowed himself to smile through a bite of bacon, "I had tried fishing once. It ended with an overturned boat and an empty stomach for everyone who was involved."

Ophelia laughed heartily into her glass of orange juice, "You'll have to tell me more about that, for sure."

Hannibal glanced at the clock above the stove, still smiling, "But for now you must go. Alana should be here soon. I'll clean this all up; don't worry," he rose, taking his breakfast with him, "I will be going directly from my evening appointments to the theatre, so Alana has agreed to drive you there. She knows where to go," he turned away from her, but caught himself before he left, "And thank you for the meal."

The Lyric Opera House was full to bursting for the first run of _Don Carlo_. It was one of Hannibal's favorite operas; politics, kingship, heresy, adultery, and romance combined with incomparable pomp and solemnity made for quite a show. The opera house never failed to put on an excellent show, and this one was sure to be their best.

Hannibal strode aloofly through the golden doors of the opera house and was immediately greeted by numerous men and women who dripped jewels and finery. He was handed a champagne flute by a young, strapping man in a tuxedo who bobbed and weaved through the crowd, a silver tray of drinks balanced on his palm. Hannibal took a sip, casting a casual glance around the room.

"Hannibal!" a small group convened at the bottom of the grand staircase leading from the entrance hall into the opulently decorated lobby burst to life as Hannibal strode through the crowd. A man stepped out of the group to greet him. His name was Wyatt Harp, and he was one of Hannibal's most infamous colleagues.

"Good evening," Hannibal smiled, joining the group and smoothing the front of his tuxedo, "I must say I'm surprised. Seems to me you all have indulged in less champagne than usual."

"Oh, don't worry," the black haired woman, Eleanor DeCassé, laughed theatrically, "We will surely reach our usual quota by the end of the first act."

"And surpass it by dinner!" Eleanor's sister, Penelope, who was also part of the small group, flashed Hannibal a cheeky smile. He ignored it.

"You alone again, Hannibal?" Wyatt asked, taking a swig of his champagne, "Or have you finally lured someone into our folds?"

Hannibal laughed shortly, "I do have someone coming. She's not-"

"Hannibal Lecter!" Eleanor swatted at his arm, "It's about time! Do tell. Where is she?"

"She's not a... a romantic pursuit, Eleanor, so I must stop you there," Hannibal rolled his eyes, "But she _is_ supposed to be here. I fear she may be lost in such a large, sea-like crowd."

"Tell us," Wyatt glanced back at Eleanor, Penelope, and the rest of the group, who were deep in their own commentary of Hannibal's mysterious companion, "What does she look like? I'll keep a look out."

"Ophelia is not a conquest, Wyatt," Hannibal frowned down at him, "She is here to enjoy the performance, not your attempts at romance."

Wyatt patted Hannibal on the shoulder, "Ophelia, huh? Wasn't thinking that at all, comrade. Is she joining us for dinner?"

"Yes, she is," Hannibal's face smoothed over again, "In fact, she offered to aid me in preparing our dinner tonight. But I see she may be trapped with you instead of in the kitchen with me."

"Tell us about her while we wait," Penelope begged, "We have time."

Hannibal fought the urge to roll his eyes. Anything new in the group was instantly the most exciting thing in the world. This was why he only took their company in doses.

"Ophelia is a classically trained dancer," Hannibal began, "And quite talented. She enjoys reading the books in my office, which tells you quite a lot right away."

Wyatt snorted, the champagne obviously beginning to go to his head, "No one enjoys reading those books, Hannibal."

"She shares my distaste for the banal," Hannibal continued, ignoring the jab.

"But what does she _look_ like?" Eleanor traced the rim of her champagne glass with her finger, "If we're going to find her in this crowd, we're going to need to know what we're looking for!" She adjusted the bodice of her dress, hoisting it upward as she spun around, craning her neck.

"Well," Hannibal scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, "She's blonde. Green eyes, tall, slender. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. If you spot a girl who resembles the sun, Eleanor, you have found her."

"So," Wyatt rubbed his chin with his forefingers, "That would be her then?" He gestured to the stairs, his lip curled into a hungry grin.

Hannibal turned to where Wyatt's thick fingers were pointed and he felt something that he could not recall experiencing in his lifetime. His stomach flipped and his chest pounded as he stared her down.

Ophelia stood at the top of the stairs, her head held aloft and her hands poised at her sides. Her slim, tanned frame was draped in deep blue satin that was slashed almost to her navel, with only modest drapes of material keeping her decent. Her hair fell in loose, luxurious curls down her back. Ophelia's ever so slightly parted lips were tinted a warm shade of pink, the color of dragon fruit. Her delicate hands clutched a small silver purse, dotted with diamond-like rhinestones.

Her eyes locked onto his, and she gave him a rueful smile and a wave. Hannibal felt as if he could not move; he could only watch as she glided down the staircase. It took every ounce of his power to keep his face impassive as she approached.

"Ophelia," Hannibal nodded curtly, "You look lovely."

"You, too," Ophelia smiled, her face alight. Her eyes shone like emerald beacons as they gazed up at Hannibal; even in heels she was a head smaller than him.

"Hannibal Lecter: the king of understatement," Wyatt pushed past him and took Ophelia's hand, planting on it a sloppy kiss, "'Radiant' would be a more appropriate word, I believe. Wyatt Harp, author extraordinaire, at your service."

"Enchanté," Ophelia mock-curtsied, "Ophelia Ford, dance student extraordinaire." She giggled nervously as Wyatt leaned down to pepper her hand with more kisses.

Hannibal watched as she went through the motions flawlessly, introducing herself to each of his associates. He couldn't help but swell with pride. Ophelia laughed and smiled and schmoozed, her voice a tinkling bell in the sea of all the usual opera patrons.

"Well done, Hannibal!" Eleanor raised her eyebrows as she looked Ophelia up and down. Usually Eleanor was quite catty regarding the appearances of other women. But to Hannibal's immense pleasure, she bestowed upon Ophelia her seal of approval.

The lights in the lobby flashed, indicating that the show was to start soon. Hannibal held his arm out to Ophelia, a satisfied twinkle on his face. She stared at him for a moment, then placed her hand daintily on his elbow and allowed herself to be led into the theatre. It was a grand room, with red velvet seats gilded in gold. The stage was dark, the curtain just waiting to be raised. Hannibal led Ophelia to the fourth row from the stage. Wyatt, Eleanor, Penelope, and the others led the way, gliding silently to the center of the row; they had prime seats and Ophelia was filled with giddy excitement.

Hannibal caught a glimpse of a group of burly men out of the corner of his eye. They stood, champagne in hand, staring Ophelia down, animalistic hunger in their eyes. The men looked her up and down, then muttered to each other, surely making lewd comments. Familiar electricity began to hiss and pop in Hannibal's chest as he watched them crudely drink her in.

He put a protective hand on the small of her back as they slid down the row of seats. She jumped at his touch, but did not protest. Hannibal looked back at the men, making a point of keeping close to Ophelia. They grimaced, realizing they had been seen, and stalked off toward the stairs to the balcony. Hannibal was sure to watch them until they were out of sight.

"You truly do look radiant," he muttered in her ear as they sat. The others around him seemed to agree as well, for she had grabbed the attention of numerous male members of the audience. A fresh face in the group was sure to cause a stir, but a face such as Ophelia's was like to cause an uprising.

In that moment, Hannibal's perception of Ophelia changed dramatically. Whereas before, she had simply been a damaged young girl with nothing more than a solid head on her shoulders, she was now blossoming into something much more. All of her actions, from reading Plato to burying the sparrow, suddenly had new, endearing, and beautiful meaning. Hannibal could not believe he had ever thought of anything but being near her. It was an entirely foreign sensation, but it was not unwelcome. All recollection of Bedelia's accusations were forgotten.

"Thank you," Ophelia leaned in to whisper, for the lights were beginning to dim and the overture was striking up. Their faces were rather close, and for a moment, all Hannibal could feel was her warm breath.

And then the curtain rose, and the theatre was transported to an entirely different world. The music built and soared, and Ophelia leaned back in her seat, immediately engrossed in the action onstage. She watched the dancers particularly closely, holding her breath every time they leapt high into the air and grinning broadly every time a particularly difficult trick was executed. Every once in a while, Hannibal would catch her swaying ever so slightly to the music, and when the short intermission came along, she was eager to have it start right back up again.

"Would you like a drink?" Hannibal placed a hand gently on her bare shoulder, "I could use a second one myself."

"Sure," she nodded, smiling, "I'll walk with you. This is just fantastic! I mean, the music, the dancing, the...everything. I've never seen anything like it before."

Hannibal beamed, taking her hand and leading her through the crowd to the lobby where drinks were being served, "I am thrilled that you're enjoying it. Giuseppe Verdi has always been a favorite of mine. You seem to be quite enthralled with the ballet chorus."

"Oh, of course!" Ophelia flustered, "The dance in the third act was just fantastic."

"I agree," Hannibal took two champagne flutes from the tray by the entrance to the theatre, handing one to Ophelia, "I also think you will be quite pleased with the ending. It is intense, to put it mildly." They both took small sips of the champagne, and Ophelia pursed her lips at the taste.

"Your friends seem..." Ophelia searched for the right words as they slipped back through the crowd toward their seats.

"Interesting," Hannibal laughed, "Eclectic. Eccentric."

Ophelia laughed as well, and Hannibal's stomach did a somersault, "Exactly what I was going to say. I like them. But you seem much more normal than them. In a good way, of course!"

Hannibal smiled knowingly, "I will take that as a compliment. Mostly I keep them around because they appreciate my cooking."

"Who _wouldn't_?" Ophelia scoffed.

"It caters to finer tastes," he let her slide into the aisle before him, "much like the opera."

"There she is!" Wyatt held his hands out to Ophelia as they approached. By the way he was moving, it was all too clear that he was well on his way to being thoroughly intoxicated, "How are you liking it, sweetheart? Debauchary and adultery make for a great show, no?"

Ophelia laughed, holding herself at a respectable distance, "What else is there?" Wyatt guffawed and patted her roughly on the shoulder as the lights began to dim again. The music struck up again, loud and brash, and Ophelia settled into her seat. She leaned on the arm rest closest to Hannibal, immediately entranced once again.

The intrigue of the opera continued, with rampant drama in every scene. There was a particularly energetic fight scene in which the protagonist dueled fierily with the mustachioed villain in the middle of the fourth act that held the entire audience on edge. Without realizing, Ophelia had clamped her hand down on Hannibal's knee in the midst of the action. He could nearly hear her heart pounding in her chest and could smell her perfume mingling with the sweet scent of her skin.

He turned away from the stage to examine her dark profile. Her eyes were locked intently on the action, and her lips hung ever so slightly apart. She watched Don Carlo duel his adversary with rapt attention. Hannibal wondered how she could still be so normal; after everything she had been dragged through, it was a miracle she wasn't holed up in a mental hospital somewhere.

Ophelia was one of the first to stand and clap during curtain call. She and Hannibal shot to their feet, their hands moving wildly as the actor who played the lonely Don Carlo came out onto the stage and blew kisses to the audience. Once the lights in the house had come up and the crowd began to file out of the theatre, Ophelia blew a gust of air out from between her lips and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Fantastic," she breathed, still moved.

Hannibal held his arm out to her again and led her through the crowd, closely followed by the rest of their small group.

"As usual," Hannibal turned to all of them once they had made their way through the crowd, "We will reconvene at my home in half an hour, where I, with the help of Ophelia tonight, will prepare our feast."

Eleanor rubbed her hands together, grinning, "It has been too long, Hannibal."

"I agree," Hannibal smiled, his eyes twinkling, "Half an hour, then." And with that, he led Ophelia off toward where he had parked his car in the front of the lot. He held the door open for her as she slid inside. She adjusted the plunging neckline of her dress carefully as he walked around to the driver's side, then proceeded to drum nervously on her clutch purse with her thumbs. For a moment, before he started the car, Hannibal sat with his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead into the dark night.

Ophelia looked over at him skeptically, "What?"

He shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. Without looking at her or speaking to her, Hannibal sped home, his knuckles tight on the wheel. To Ophelia, it was obvious that he was thinking rather hard about something. While his face was steely and impassive, his hands clenched and unclenched, constantly mobile. His eyes burned, as if whatever he was contemplating was making him quite angry.

When they arrived back at his home, he nearly leapt from the car and strode around to hold the door open for her.

"Thanks," she smiled timidly, holding the neckline of her dress in place and slipping out of the seat and toward the front door. She waited silently as he undid the locks, staring down at her clutch.

The house was dark when they stepped inside. It smelled of the food that Hannibal had already begun preparing, and the candles that Ophelia had burned in the bathroom while she had dressed for the opera. She had forgotten to leave any lights on; they could barely see a foot in front of their own faces.

Ophelia turned to start into the sitting room, but instead ran directly into Hannibal's chest. He stared down at her, his face twisted into an expression Ophelia did not know what to label.

"I," Hannibal began, his voice tight, "I would like to do something."

"Okay..." Ophelia let her hands fall to her sides.

Hannibal's hands slowly traced her arms, from the tips of her fingers to her shoulders, and then skimmed the skin of her neck. Ophelia's breath hitched in her throat as she froze in place. Her eyes fluttered closed as Hannibal's forefinger traced her lips, then the skin above her collarbones. She could feel her heart pounding madly.

In a moment that felt like an eternity, Hannibal leaned his face down so that it was level with Ophelia's. He took a deep breath in, his eyes examining her frozen face. And then, in a desperate attempt to still the whirring panic inside her, she dropped her clutch, clasped her hands behind his neck, and kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss. It tasted of desperation, heat, and smoldering need. Hannibal's lips tasted sweet, stronger and with more heat than the champagne that was still on his breath. In the kiss, she tasted the emotion of the past weeks, everything she could not remember, and more.

For a second, she pulled away, the reality of the attack-kiss hanging over her head. Hannibal's eyes were wide, his lips hanging open, and his hands frozen on her back. They didn't move, didn't breathe. Just tried desperately to truly see one another.

And then it didn't matter. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, pressing her back against the wall, and she knotted her hands in his hair. Hannibal's hands ran up her back and over the nape of her neck and down to her collarbones. She shuddered as he let himself pull her into a deeper kiss, full of everything that he had always been told he would never be able to feel.

They were shocked apart when the doorbell rang.

"Hannibal, open up!" Wyatt called, his voice slightly slurred, "We're starving out here." Hannibal leapt away from Ophelia, his face flushed.

Ophelia flipped on the lights in the entryway as Hannibal hurried toward the kitchen, turning lights on as he went. Before she could even reach for the door, the kitchen had come alive with sounds.

"Come in!" Ophelia opened the door after readjusting her dress and patting her hair into submission. The small entourage bustled in, pushing past her and hurrying toward where wine was surely waiting for them.

She followed, watching Hannibal work and waiting for instruction. He moved like a one-man machine: well oiled and full of purpose. Most of the food had been prepared earlier that day, so the meal did not require much work. He laughed and chatted with his friends, his somewhat askew hair the only evidence of the kiss.

"I'll set the table," Ophelia leaned across the counter to where plates and silverware were stacked. Hannibal glanced down at her as she whisked the small stack away, and she could feel her face flush with red heat.

The dinner rolled on past midnight, with the group lounging around the table eating, drinking, and laughing. Hannibal had served them all thin, tender slices of roast tenderloin with salads made of greens and toasted root chips. A cornucopia of colorful vegetables and flowers made up the edible centerpiece: lotus flowers, beets, yam, sugar snaps, and pea sprouts, only to name a few. At the other end of the table was a nautical themed plate full of toasted slices of fish with nautilus peppers, olives and anchovy rolls. It was quite a thing to behold.

Each time Ophelia looked at Hannibal, who sat at the head of the table, her stomach fluttered and her cheeks flushed. The others simply assumed it was the copious amounts of wine that she had been sipping. Soon after two, they began to stumble out, leaving Hannibal and Ophelia to clean up by themselves. They stood in silence scrubbing dishes, two misfits in evening wear. Neither of them dared break the quietude.

Outside Hannibal's dark office, far from where the pair yearned for sleep, a barn owl alighted on a branch. In the starless darkness, it focused on a tree across the street, in which a sparrow nestled, preparing for a restful night outside the dark windows of the coffee shop. The owl ruffled its feathers and settled in as well, but not to sleep. It was beginning its hunt.


	12. Chapter 12

Bedelia stood by the wide window, looking out at the rain, which had just begun to dribbled down from the black clouds that hung over Baltimore. She rubbed her hands over her eyes, momentarily letting her professional composure falter. Hannibal was heading down a dark path and dragging Ophelia right along with him. Everything he thought he felt, and everything that he insisted he was still feeling were dangerous and false.

"Hannibal," Bedelia turned away from the window, "I still stand by my assertion that you are unable to comprehend the kind of emotional attachment that you say you are feeling. I commend the imagination, and the effort, but it will not work."

"I must admit I am confused by it all," Hannibal sighed crossing and uncrossing his legs in his chair, "I feel as if a levee has broken somewhere in my mind. And I am not sure if I want to repair it."

"That 'levee'," Bedelia sighed, "Is your mind trying to process the things you are forcing upon it. And that Ophelia is forcing into it."

"I instigated the romantic gesture, Bedelia. Ophelia has done nothing but unintentionally cause me to doubt myself."

With a sigh, Bedelia sank onto the couch across from Hannibal. She thought about everything that had transpired between him and the Ophelia girl since their last meeting. Hannibal was clearly forcing himself to manufacture feelings; he surely did not have the ability to feel such strong, affectionate things for another human being. He had merely convinced himself that he could.

"What do you plan to do about it?" she asked.

Hannibal sighed, running his tongue across his teeth, "That is what I was hoping you could shed some light on."

Bedelia shrugged, quite at a loss, "I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I do not have all the answers. What I can tell you is that you would be wise to backpedal. Stop pursuing a feeling that just cannot exist. Stop pretending it can. And stop turning this into another Will-type scenario. You cannot presume to control everything."

He stayed silent for a moment, torn between believing her and refuting her claim. Every detail of the relationship he had revealed to Bedelia, even the events of the previous night at the opera and afterward. It was the first time he had even tried to feel something so authentic. But Bedelia was right about one thing: he was not in control. He had not been in control in the instance of Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs, and it had ended messily. Once again, the relationship that had blossomed between he and Ophelia was not something that he could see the endgame of. It was up in the air. Out of control. But, oddly enough, he liked it that way.

"I don't know what to say," Hannibal kept his eyes cast to the ground in front of Bedelia's feet, "This is something I have never experienced before, and I don't know how to proceed."

"Don't," she shook her head, her hair bouncing over her shoulders and her earrings jingling, "Don't proceed. Her case will be solved by Jack Crawford and his investigative team soon enough and she will be off creating a new life for herself. If this is something you are truly feeling, you won't have the opportunity to feel it for much longer."

"Perhaps you are right," Hannibal's face darkened considerably, "I am, after all, most inclined to do what I have always done. Being a solitary creature, I began to act on my original intent. But, alas, she has changed my mind. I truly know not how to proceed." He knew there was no use hiding it from Bedelia. She saw directly through his mask, almost as if it was not there at all.

"Don't do anything rash. Anything that you will regret," she pursed her lips knowingly, "I understand the appeal, Hannibal, I truly do. But think of what you are dealing with here. She is entirely foreign territory. Damaged goods, no less. No matter what path you choose, you must tread lightly."

"Of course."

"Where is she now?"

"At home," Hannibal shifted in his seat, "I left before she had even stirred."

"And what do you plan to do when the two of you are alone together again?"

He shrugged, the mask returning to its rightful place, "Business as usual, I presume. I had not given much thought to what was to come, only to what had already passed."

"Well, there you go," Bedelia flustered her hand in the air, punctuating her point, "You haven't thought. And when you do, I am sure you will begin to see reason."

"My intentions are-"

"Your intentions are entirely clear, Hannibal," she was suddenly stern, "The evidence goes to show that this cannot end well. Stay professional."

She watched as anger bubbled beneath his glassy exterior. It was a storm that had been brewing for as long as she had known him, and had been locked up in his mind-prison for the entirety of their professional companionship. But as she watched him, as the rain came down in a quiet rush, a crack in the foundation was formed.

* * *

Ophelia had stayed in her pajamas all day, which was a treat. When she had awoken, Hannibal had already left for the day; he was wise enough to anticipate her dreadful hangover. She had shuffled downstairs in an old t-shirt and her favorite purple wooly socks to find a plate of delectable breakfast waiting for her in the fridge and a full bottle of ibuprofen sitting conveniently on the counter.

She sat alone in the kitchen, twirling her ponytail around her finger, her headache subsiding rather quickly as the little red pills worked their medicinal magic. The grand music of the opera floated through her mind; she swayed in her chair to the songs of the ballerinas that had danced through her muddled dreams all night.

Her toes curling at the thought, Ophelia recalled the kiss. Stomach fluttering and head reeling, her fingers found their tentative way to her lips, where Hannibal's had been just the night before. She had thought about kissing Hannibal before in daydreams and outlandish fantasies, but in none of her dreams had he been so broodingly aggressive. She shivered, grinning to herself and kicking her feet giddily.

After cleaning up in the kitchen and successfully ridding herself of the headache, Ophelia felt oddly energetic. Perhaps she could see Alana again; their "girls' day" had been a smashing success. Ophelia had never pegged Alana Bloom as the type to be fun in any way, shape, or form, but she had really pulled through. Ophelia resolved to give her a call later on.

But as she reached the top of the stairs, something else caught her attention. Usually, the door leading to her room was the only one left open on the upper level, but today Hannibal's doors had been left ajar, and Ophelia couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly curious about what they concealed.

She slipped through the small opening and into the dark, cave-like room. Immediately, she was hit with a blast of cold air and the smell of paper and leather. Ophelia flipped on the light by the door, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open.

Hannibal's bedroom was enormous; it was almost a smaller scaled model of his office, only without the upper balcony. His black, satin sheeted bed was settled against the far wall, leaving a large desk, glass display cases, and a bookshelf to occupy the rest of the room. Dark landscapes hung in golden frames on the walls and a wrought iron chandelier dangled from the center of the ceiling. It was almost medieval; Ophelia thought it quite enticing.

She peered into the largest display case, cringing when she realized what it contained. A tiny bird's skeleton, completely assembled, was propped in the case. It appeared extremely fragile; perhaps it was a canary or a sparrow.

Next to the case was Hannibal's enormous mahogany desk. Its surface was completely covered with stacks upon stacks of paper, on which detailed drawings were penned. Ophelia slid into the chair at the desk and leaned over the drawings, her eyes widening at the masterful artwork.

The drawings themselves ranged from scarily realistic to surreal and abstract. Most of them were of people, random people that Ophelia had never seen before. She figured they were past patients, or more of Hannibal's eclectic friends that she had not yet met. A few of them, toward the bottom of the largest stack, were anatomical diagrams of the very same people who had been depicted in earlier images. Some of them were so eerily realistic that they made Ophelia's stomach churn.

And then, at the very bottom of the pile, was a drawing of Ophelia. She was sketched in the dress she had worn to the opera, laying back on the chaise lounge in the sitting room just downstairs. At first, she was flattered; she had always admired artists and their way of depicting human likenesses. She was flattered that Hannibal thought highly enough of her to draw her in such an intricate, detailed way.

But on the other side of the drawing was something much more gruesome. In the corner was a roughly sketched diagram like all the others, but the majority of the paper was taken up with a depiction of Ophelia, very obviously dead, on the chaise lounge in her opera dress. She was cut from chin to navel, a horrifyingly graphic detailing of her organs sketched in where her dress had once been. Each organ was labelled. Her face was smudged and distorted, as if Hannibal had tried to rub her out.

Below the image, in the bottom corner of the paper, was a small, scrawled note. Ophelia had to squint to read it: "Killing her would feel synonymous to sin. But aren't we made to sin?" She stared at the words, her face slowly dissolving into a grimace.

"What the hell?" Ophelia hissed, blinking furiously.

There was a bang downstairs and Ophelia dropped the paper, leaping to her feet. She pulled the hem of her pajama shirt down as she hurried from the room, flipping off the light and slipping through the doors to the hall.

"Hannibal?" she called, starting down the stairs, her hand trailing along the stone wall. There was no response.

And then, in a flash of frenzied movement, a pair of hands flew from nowhere, latched onto Ophelia's face, and smashed her head into the wall. She was unconscious before she hit the floor.

* * *

Hannibal returned home soon after he left Bedelia's office. He had driven around the block a few times, just to have the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts for a while. Though he knew not what he would do about his dilemma with Ophelia, he knew that he wanted to see her, no matter what the circumstance.

"Ophelia!" he called as he stepped through the front door, tossing his keys on the table and shrugging off his coat, "I do believe you owe me a day of film."

There was no answer. He waited a moment, half expecting to be greeted by a hug, a kiss, or at least an amicable handshake. But after what felt like an infinite silence, there was still nothing.

Then, there was a _slap_ and a muffled groan from deeper in the house. Hannibal rushed into the sitting room, stopping short when he saw the scene that had been meticulously laid out for him.

Thomas Ford stood in the center of the room, dressed haphazardly in a torn and dirtied lab coat. He held Hannibal's largest knife in his grasp, pointing it directly at Ophelia's back. She was strapped to a dining room chair, duct tape over her mouth and the side of her head covered in crusted blood. Her eyes wheeled wildly and her chest heaved with muffled sobs.

"It's really you," Thomas stepped forward, the knife still pointed at Ophelia, "It's really the infamous Hannibal Lecter, standing right here in front of me."

"Hello Thomas," Hannibal remained calm, "I've heard so much about you."

He laughed and snorted, "Ditto, Lecter, ditto. Ya' know, you're a hard man to track. It takes a monster to catch a monster, huh. I finally got a good trace on both of you last night at the opera, though, and here we are now. Didn't my daughter just look stunning?"

Ophelia whimpered, and Thomas pressed the tip of the knife against her back.

Hannibal took a small step toward them, "Now, there's no need to be rash, Thomas. Ophelia tells me you are an intelligent man. Why don't we talk like we are both civilized? Over tea, perhaps?"

"No, no, no!" Thomas laughed, wiggling the knife, "I know how you work, good sir. I've heard things. I know people. I'd be dead in minutes if I let my guard down now."

"Alright then," Hannibal inched forward again, "Then we will just talk here. What would you like to talk about, Thomas?"

"Okay, first of all," Thomas sighed, "stop saying my name over and over. I know that's some psychobabble trick you mind people use to get chummy with your patients. But anyway, Ophelia is what I would like to talk about."

She whimpered, shutting her eyes tight as he sidestepped in front of her chair.

"Open your eyes," Thomas commanded, pressing the tip of the knife into her cheek. His hot breath blew tiny strand of gold away from her face.

Ophelia shook her head, a whimpering sob shaking her chest.

"Open your damn eyes or I'll cut off your eyelids and staple them to your forehead!" he roared, his face a breath away from hers. Ophelia sobbed through the duct tape gag, her eyes shooting open and darting down to the knife that was beginning to stick into her cheek.

"Okay," Thomas stood, turning again toward Hannibal, "So, the esteemed, respected, _gift_ Hannibal Lecter. You were called a _gift_ by a newspaper in Utica. Helped some bipolar kid solve her issues. I don't remember all the details right at this minute. But then another journal in Seattle called _psychopaths_ a gift. Coincidence, right? Psychopaths! A lot of people agreed with that, surprisingly. You see the connection there, obviously. But what kind of gift destroys everything it touches?"

"Perhaps the gift is the balance that is struck when these psychopaths are in play. It is said that balance must be made between the innocents and the non-innocents for society to succeed," Hannibal suggested, his eyes following a bead of blood that was dripping down from Ophelia's cheek and onto her chest.

"Is that what we're doing here?" Thomas let his wrist fall slack, but the knife was still grasped firmly in his fingers, "Striking a balance?"

"You," Hannibal's voice was touched with poison, "are torturing your child for selfish gain. That is no balance."

"But, see, I'm using her for the monster she is, to get to another monster. It's genius, really. She's a monster, right? She's a monster!"

"No. I know what she is," Hannibal took another step toward Thomas, still collected, "She is not a monster. She is a victim."

Thomas rolled his eyes, "Oh _come on_ Doctor. Your reputation in mind, one would think you could spot a monster when you were confronted with one. This bitch is the biggest monstrosity I have ever seen. Which is exactly why I knew she would fit in perfectly with you. By purifying her, I would purify you. Everything is purified by suffering."

"How are you purifying Ophelia?"

"Through my experiments! They helped her achieve clarity. By killing her sorority brats and then finding you, she achieved a higher purpose. _My_ purpose. I've been watching you for years, Doctor Lecter. I know about you, sir. Sir Ripper. I know."

Hannibal took a step closer, "I don't think you do."

Thomas jerked the knife down toward Ophelia's torso, "Not too close, Ripper. Wouldn't want you doing anything crazy, now would we?"

"You wouldn't do anything more to her, Thomas. You don't need to. She's done her duty by getting you here. To me. Ophelia is out of the equation. You have only me to deal with now."

Thomas thought for a moment, then shrugged, "Ya' know, you're right. I don't need her." And in a blink, he turned and plunged the knife into Ophelia's stomach. She let out a strangled moan as blood splattered against the inside of the duct tape on her mouth and dribbled through the frayed edges. Dark crimson bloomed around the knife and through the fabric of her shirt.

Hannibal reacted immediately, lunging forward and latching his arms around Thomas's chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He threw the lean blonde man to the ground and pulled the knife from Ophelia's stomach, pointing it down at Thomas, who was struggling to his feet. Without thinking, Thomas lunged at Hannibal, his arms flailing wildly. The knife in Hannibal's hand glanced off of Thomas's side, catching on his lab jacket and whipping from Hannibal's hand. They crashed to the floor at Ophelia's feet, the back of Hannibal's head slamming into the ground. With a grunt, he threw Thomas off of him and lunged for the knife again. Before Thomas had a chance to react, Hannibal took the bloody knife in his hands and threw himself forward. The knife, holding all of Hannibal's weight, pierced Thomas's heart directly, killing him almost instantly.

Ophelia's head began to loll forward, her consciousness fading and blood streaming from her stomach. Hannibal crawled to her and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. She took a deep, ragged breath, flecks of blood splattering from her lips onto Hannibal's face.

"I will not fail you," Hannibal muttered as he hastily untied her, "I will save you, Ophelia, I will not fail you." He cast a glance over his shoulder at Thomas's lifeless body, rage boiling inside of him.

Ophelia fell limp, her body suddenly lifeless. Her heartbeats were weak and small, and her eyes rolled back as Hannibal pulled her into his arms. The warmth of her blood soaked the front of his shirt as he leapt over Thomas and hurtled toward the door. He had to save her. She was not a monster, as Thomas had said. She was a victim. Hannibal was the reason he had been there. He was the monster.

He would simply have to protect her, like the monster he was.


	13. Chapter 13

Ophelia had endured her fair share of near death experiences; it wasn't something she would ever really get used to. But for her it seemed inevitable, like the reaper was around every corner, enjoying watching her become a living disaster. She could try and escape, time and time again, but still the reaper still dangled her from the edge of life and death.

Thankfully, she had always been pulled away.

Ophelia's eyes opened slowly, adjusting painfully to the blinding fluorescents above her.

_Beep beep beep beep beep._

Monitors flashed and whirred by her bedside. Wires and tubes strung like webs from her arms, attaching to the beeps, flashes, and whirrs. Ophelia's hand fluttered over the stitches that pulled at the side of her head, flinching. An oxygen tube rested beneath her nose; she reached for it, disoriented and confused.

"Hey, hey, stop that," a hand shot into her line of vision, swatting her fingers away from the tube, "You're awake!" Freddie Lounds's face appeared, the glow of the fluorescent lights setting her hair aflame.

"What's going on?" Ophelia shied away from her fast movements, trying to turn her head to look past Freddie, but failing.

"You're in the hospital," Freddie put her hands on her hips, "obviously."

"Where's Hannibal?" her voice cracked as she spoke his name. The drawings flooded back into her memory, making her shudder and the heart rate monitor spike. She flinched as pain shot through her abdomen.

_Ripper._

Freddie shrugged, "He was here a minute ago. Probably went home to eat, or get your things, or something."

"What about-"

"Thomas? Your dear daddy? His body is under Jack Crawford's microscope. Don't you remember?"

Ophelia thought hard. The time between discovering the drawings and being in the hospital was fuzzy.

"Oh yeah," Freddie grimaced, as if reading her mind, "Massive head wound. Memory loss and all that."

"I need to talk to Hannibal," Ophelia began to sit up and the monitors around her went berserk, "Right now. Please." A sharp pain shot from her stomach again, and she fell back onto the bed, her hands fumbling protectively at her hospital gown. Fear mingled with pain at the thought of Hannibal being there with her.

"You really don't," Freddie lowered her voice, throwing a furtive glance over her shoulder, "But my friend will be here soon, and you should talk to him instead. You remember my friend, right? I told you about him when we first met. You were burying a bird."

"Yeah, I remember. But who is it?"

Before Freddie had a chance to answer, a small caravan of nurses appeared in the doorway and ushered her out of the room. With a flash of red, she disappeared around the corner. Ignoring Ophelia's protests, the nurses began to buzz about her, running diagnostics and changing bandages. Once Ophelia realized that the nurses were a hassle to be begrudgingly endured, she just lay back, closed her eyes, and let it happen.

"A minute alone, please?" Hannibal's voice from the doorway interrupted the business of the nurses. They all turned in unison to glare at him, as if he had just called them particularly nasty names. But once they realized who he was, they quickly vacated the room.

Hannibal stood in the doorway for an eternity of a moment. They stared at each other in silence; Ophelia could not tear her eyes away from his face. As usual, it was a mask of glassy impassiveness, but behind his eyes was a plethora of emotion. It was clear that he was having trouble holding onto his steely resolve. For a moment, Ophelia felt sad for him, because this was all her fault. All of his trouble was because of her. Because of her father.

"Hi," she muttered, her voice no bigger than a whisper.

"Hello," Hannibal remained in the doorway.

"Fancy meeting you here." The air between them was tense and rife with electricity.

"How do you feel?"

Ophelia shrugged, ignoring the tugging pain in her abdomen, "I have a bit of a stomach ache, but other than that it's a good day."

"Don't joke," Hannibal strode forward, his movements mechanical, "What happened, Ophelia? How did he get to you?" Pulling up a chair, he sat beside her bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

She chose her words carefully, "I was upstairs. Just... hanging out. I heard something downstairs and thought it was you. So I went downstairs and... bang."

"Bang," Hannibal echoed, "Your father was an awful man, with no reflection on you. You must understand that. You are innocent."

Ophelia snorted, "That man hasn't been my _father_ for years. He stared those experiments when I was little. Fatherhood never suited him."

"It's a good thing he's gone then."

"So it's for real? He's dead? I didn't just... dream that? You... you did it?"

Hannibal nodded, "If I hadn't, we both would be dead."

"I know," Ophelia cleared her throat, "Thanks."

They sat in silence for a moment, simply studying each other's faces. Neither of them knew what to say next, which was something quite new for them both. So much hung in the air over their heads. Obviously, an impasse had been reached. While Ophelia felt her fight or flight instincts warring inside of her at Hannibal's presence, he felt a rather different set of emotions. He felt powerful. Masterful. Proud. Not only for saving Ophelia's life, but for squelching whatever knowledge Thomas had brought along with him.

The word "Ripper" hung in the air, but only Hannibal watched as it dissolved from his vision. He was safe. Ophelia was alive. And she was none the wiser.

"Do you have appointments today?" Ophelia broke the silence.

Hannibal nodded, "A few. But I could stay here if need be."

"No, no, no, go ahead," Ophelia brandished a tube-covered hand in the air between them, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Alright," Hannibal allowed himself a small smile, "I'll be back as soon as I can. Cooperate with the doctors and the nurses and you should be allowed to return home with me for rehabilitation in no time."

"Ok," Ophelia bit her lip, a confrontation concerning the drawings and the "Ripper" accusation on the tip of her tongue.

"See you for dinner then." Hannibal stood and hovered beside her for a moment. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ducked down quickly, planting a kiss on her forehead, before hurrying out of the room. Relief flooded Ophelia's body; he didn't know that she had been in his room. She could only imagine his reaction if he were to find out that she had been snooping.

For quite a while, Ophelia simply lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. She could do nothing more, really, for she was attached to so many wires and her abdomen was nearly preventing her from breathing. Nurses came in and out ever half hour or so, and Alana Bloom came to visit with a vase of Pansies in hand. A nod to Shakespeare's Ophelia and her reference to Pansies as a flower of some merit, perhaps.

Hannibal returned later on as well, and with him came a veritable buffet of good foods that she would surely not find anywhere in the hospital. While she ate, he disappeared again, this time to discuss her discharge with a doctor.

Ophelia sat in silence, sipping the soup that Hannibal had prepared for her. It was chock full of vegetables and herbs, something that the nurses could not argue with.

Just before she had finished her meal of soup and roast chicken, there was a knock at the door to her room. Before waiting for Ophelia to answer, the door opened and a man slipped through, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Ophelia gripped her fork tightly in her hands as the man stood in the doorway, his face only partially illuminated.

He was an unassuming man, quite attractive, but the kind that could easily blend into any setting. Dressed in a large grey sweater and faded jeans, the man peered at Ophelia from behind rectangular glasses and through a curtain of unruly dark hair.

"Hello?" Ophelia's finger hovered over the nurse call button and her knuckled turned white as her grip tightened.

"Hi," the man stepped forward, holding his hands out in a sign of surrender, "I'm not here to hurt you, so you can put down your, erm, weapon."

Ophelia said nothing, but loosened her grip on the silverware.

"My name is Will Graham. I'm here to help-"

"Oh!" Ophelia pointed her fork at him, "I've heard your name before. Hannibal Lecter and Alana Bloom mentioned you."

"I'm sure they did," Will shuffled nervously, still a safe distance from her bed, "They're why I'm here, actually. Well, Doctor Lecter is the reason. There are things you need to be made aware of."

"Sit," Ophelia gestured to the chair by her bed, "please." She dropped the fork amongst the remnants of her food.

"Thanks," Will shuffled around the end of her bed, his hands held clenched at his sides.

"Are you okay?" she could see a sheen of sweat on his forehead and on the bridge of his nose, sliding his glasses askew.

"I'm fine," Will adjusted the bridge of his glasses as he sat, "I just don't have much time. Hannibal doesn't know I'm here, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Alright," Ophelia nodded, her brows pulled together with worry.

"I would tell you that I'm not here to scare you, but that would be a lie. I'm just going to get right to it," Will clasped his hands in his lap, "You may think you're safe with Hannibal Lecter, but you would be wrong. I was a professor at one point in my life, and I enjoyed my job. I had dogs and a nice place. But then I started helping out Jack Crawford and the FBI as a criminal profiler for his team. I... empathize with killers, I guess you could say. I hate that about myself. It's a disgusting 'talent' to be able to see what killers see, to understand their design. I started working with Hannibal when I was assigned to my first case. He acted like he was helping, but in reality he was just winding me up."

"How?"

"I was framed for something that he did. Have you heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?"

"Yeah, I read about it once," Thomas's words panged loudly in her ears. _Ripper_.

"He had a copycat."

"You mean-"

"Until very recently my address was Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. And then Maryland Penitentiary until just yesterday. But thanks to some people who understand the way Doctor Lecter works, I was let go. But _he _does not know that. Because he is still under the impression that his crimes have fallen on my shoulders. He just doesn't stop. And the thing is, he looks normal and he acts normal, but nobody can tell what he really is."

She said nothing when Will paused. Back in Arizona, she had read about the mass killings happening in the Baltimore area. Abigail Hobbs, Cassie Boyle, Georgia Madchen, Donald Stucliffe, and Marissa Schurr had all been just a few victims of this unnamed killer. But she had never been able to put a face to the killer, or even a name. The last person she would have suspected was Hannibal, but suddenly it seemed rather feasible.

"I believe you," Ophelia began, "But for one reason, and one reason only." She then proceeded to tell Will about her findings in Hannibal's room, from the drawings to the sparrow skeleton, and finally Thomas's confrontation. Will listened intently, nodding as if many details were falling into place in his mind.

"Then you understand what a serious position you're in," Will placed a tentative hand on the edge of her bed, "Freddie Lounds has been keeping an eye on you. She was there at the opera, and at Hannibal's office more than once. She knows how attached he has grown to you. The last time he grew this attached to another person, one of them ended up in a mental hospital and all they found of the other was an ear."

"He wrote about killing me," Ophelia added, "On the bottom of the picture. Do you think... do you think he wants to do the same thing to me that he did to you?" She thought back to the kiss. On his lips, she had tasted no murderous intention. Only desperation and the depth of a thousand well-kept secrets.

"I'm sure this is why he took you in to begin with. To use you as a cover," Will nodded, "I've been following your case as much as I can."

"It's over now," Ophelia muttered, "Hannibal killed the man who was after me. And after him, as well. He saved me and brought me here."

"Then he doesn't want you gone just yet. He has a use for you. Some divine plan of his own."

"What should I do? I'm not exactly in any condition to make a speedy getaway," she gestured to her stomach and to the stitches on her head, "What are _you_ planning on doing?"

"What I'm going to do is help you," Will stated resolutely, "I have a colleague at Cambridge who's offered to secure a teaching job for me. When I heard about you from Alana, I knew that I had to get to you before he had a chance to do something drastic. When I was in your position, at first I felt empty. Helpless. But then when I realized I could control my own fate, and not let him rule it, then I felt powerful."

Ophelia pressed her face into her hands, "You want me to just... run from him?"

"The way I see it, neither of us have a choice. You'll end up like me, Ophelia. I don't think you want that to happen."

She looked into his kind, puppy-dog face. It didn't seem capable of harm or malicious intent. As much as her better judgement told her otherwise, she trusted him. If Alana Bloom trusted him, after all, he _must_ be a kind soul.

Ophelia hoisted herself into a sitting position, flinching at the tug in her abdomen, and leaned in closer to Will, "Okay. I believe you, and I agree with you. Something's going to happen to me if I stay here. Who knows? An ear could be all that's left of _me_ if I stay. Ya' know, I knew something was weird. Something was off the minute I stepped into his house. I could tell."

"We don't have much more time," Will looked at the nurses outside the window to her dark room, "Meet me at the coffee shop across the street from Hannibal's office tomorrow evening at ten. Alana could take you there. We can continue this discussion then."

"Tomorrow?"

"They're discharging you," Will smiled ruefully, "Doctor Lecter knows how to pull strings."

"Okay. Tomorrow at ten. I'll hobble my way there."

"Good," Will placed his hand on her arm, "I'm glad you have such an open mind. And I'm glad that you're not blind to Hannibal Lecter's meticulous disguise. He's a monster, Ophelia. You, on the other hand, are trusting, gentle, kind. And not a monster. Don't forget that between now and our next meeting." And with that, Will Graham slipped from the room and disappeared down the hall. As if Ophelia hadn't been disturbed to begin with, she lay down again, adjusting the wires around her arms so that they appeared undisturbed as well. She shut her eyes tight and willed her head to cease its pounding and for the universe to flip itself right-side-up once more.

Hannibal came into the room, then, accompanied by a large group of nurses. He leaned down to her, assuming she was asleep, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. Her eyes snapped open, and she fought the urge to shy away from his hand.

"Glad you're awake," he smiled, "I've just gotten the word that you can come home tomorrow. I'll be sleeping here tonight, right beside you. Not to worry, Ophelia, I'm going to take care of you."

She nodded wordlessly and closed her eyes again, listening as Hannibal settled himself into the chair that Will had just vacated. After the nurses left, the only sounds in the room were the beeping and whirring of the monitors and the soft rush of Hannibal's steady breath. Ophelia inhaled deeply, flexing and releasing her abdomen over and over again, simulating exercise in any way she could. Strength was what she needed, not a crippling disability.

_Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, _Ophelia thought, _I'll be safe tomorrow. Tomorrow._

Ophelia opened her eyes and looked over at Hannibal one last time. He slept with a permanent frown on his face. It was quite different from his usually placid expression. As she watched him sleep, she wondered if he had many dreams. She could not imagine that his dormant mind could produce happy thoughts on its own. Surely he dreamt of dark things. And of her.

It was then that she knew, truly. She would die. She would die at Hannibal's hand if she did not escape.

Outside the window was a large oak tree. In it was a nest that housed a single bird: a sparrow. Sparrows were gentle creatures, perhaps the gentlest of all bird-kind. They were quite trusting of all other birds; a sparrow would often fly free with foreign flocks, only to return to its nest after feeling satisfied. An owl had alighted on the branch below this particular sparrow, its wide orange eyes watching as the petite brown bird settled in for a night of rest. On the branch above the sparrow, a nightingale began building its own nest, happy to have the sparrow for a neighbor, but wary of the owl that preyed on them both from the lowest depths of the tree.


	14. Chapter 14

Hannibal helped Ophelia stand for the first time the next day. It took her a while to stand; the painkillers had done a doozy on her coordination. He had assured her that he would take her off of the pills as soon as they were back at home and give her his own herbal remedy instead. Ophelia was silently wary of what his "remedy" would really be.

The first few steps yielded a sharp pain in her abdomen that shot up and down her torso. It was dizzying, but she refused to stop taking shuffling steps, her hand firmly grasped on Hannibal's arm. Her back hunched and her face set in a grimace, she made her way across the room and back again, only to be forced back into bed by the nurses. Though she insisted that a lap or two more would do her good, she was reattached to numerous machines and told to stay put once again. They made no attempts to hide their distaste at Hannibal's choice to remove her from the hospital so early, and Hannibal was just as ornery. Their bickering gave Ophelia a headache, but she stayed quiet, her mind focused on her conversation with Will Graham.

Around noon, Hannibal and the nurses appeared in her room with a wheelchair and a paper bag full of assorted medicines. They wheeled the small blue chair to the side of her bed and immediately started hoisting her into it, without any warning.

"Jesus Christ!" Ophelia hissed as Hannibal adjusted her legs for her, "I can still move my legs, you know." She flinched at Hannibal's touch, gritting her teeth and bunching the front of her hospital gown in her fingers.

"I apologize," Hannibal straightened, frowning down at her, "I am just quite anxious to get you out of this place and back to where I can properly care for you. These doctors don't know what is best." He had not let her perplexing behavior go unnoticed, but had temporarily passed it off as stir-crazy irritability.

"Eh," Ophelia shrugged, cradling her stomach, "I'm sure they're... fine at their jobs." She rolled her shoulders, trying her hardest to evade Hannibal's gaze, though he loomed over her like a headstone over a grave.

"Pills are clearly having a negative effect on you," Hannibal scowled only slightly, squatting in front of her and pulling her face up to his, "Your eyes are quite glazed. And you're nothing less than grumpy." He forced a sympathetic smile, holding her face fast in his hands, though she tried to pull away.

Ophelia pursed her lips, "I mean, I did get stabbed in the stomach, so..."

"I suppose that is a valid reason to be in a foul mood," Hannibal stroked her hair and popped back up, straightening his jacket, "Your discharge papers should be processed shortly. Not to worry, my dear Ophelia. You'll be in my hands again soon." And with that he was off down the hall, surely to pester the nurses and doctors even more. Ophelia frowned, watching his well-tailored back disappear down the hall.

"Overprotective," Ophelia sighed, wheeling herself to the window. She watched as a sparrow sat in its nest, tearing apart a small piece of string and whistling idly. Every once in a while, it looked over the edge of the branch, down at the ground.

There was a knock at the door, and Ophelia's heart thumped out of time. She spun the wheelchair around, clumsy and ungainly, her fingers catching in the spokes.

"Oh, it's you," Ophelia sighed, relief washing over her body as Alana Bloom entered the room, a basket of fruit in her arms. Her curly hair was pulled into a colorful clip the shape of a wren. She was a welcome splash of color and life, and a welcome change from the droll monotony of the nurses.

"How are you feeling?" Alana set the basket on the table beside the bed and pulled a chair over to where Ophelia's chair rolled back and forth.

"I'm okay," she sighed, "Walking is interesting, and the meds are strong, but I'm going home today, so..." Ophelia glanced down at the duffle bag of clothes that Hannibal had dropped off when she had ben sleeping. The thought of him watching her sleep made her insides churn.

"I bet you're relieved," Alana smiled sympathetically, "What with your name being cleared and your father... out of the picture. You're free to leave, start a new life for yourself. The entire department has agreed to help you start over whenever you're ready."

Ophelia's face darkened, her pleasant mask disappearing, "I think we both know it's not that easy."

After a heavy silence, Alana sighed, "That's true. I guess this means Will finally got in touch with you."

"Last night," Ophelia rolled her shoulders, her lips pursed, "He definitely shed some light on things. Confirmed some suspicions."

"He told me. About everything: the drawings, the writings, and the obsessive need to protect. Part of me feels that this is my fault. I allowed Hannibal to take you in, while I had knowledge of his... activities. I pushed you two together; you were on those drugs and didn't know what you were talking about when you said you wanted to be with him that day. You should have come to stay with me instead. I knew... I knew about Will, and everything that happened to him. He told me everything when he was able. I should have known that this would happen. It's like Abigail all over again. He's always been just so _strange_."

"Alana," Ophelia leaned forward and took Alana's hand into hers, wincing when the stitches of her stomach protested sharply, "I really don't see how any of this is your fault. It's not at all, really. If it's anyone's fault, it's my dad's. You tried to do the right thing. I consider you a friend, Alana, and I still will when I figure out what I'm going to do."

"I'll take you to meet with Will," Alana nodded resolutely, "I'll... I'll tell Hannibal that you need time away or something. He can't argue with me. He _won't _argue with me. And we'll go see Will together."

"Thank you," Ophelia squeezed her hands just as the door to the room swung open again. Hannibal stood there for a moment, his eyes darting between the two of them. For the slightest of moments, the micro-expressions on his face were raw and hideously angry, like a feral animal defending a kill. But then he softened, the mask firmly in place.

"Alana Bloom," he forced a smile, "What a surprise." He nodded to the basket of fruits on the bedside table, his lips pursing.

"Hello, Hannibal," Alana stood, letting Ophelia's hands fall away from hers, "I just came to check up on Ophelia. Looks like she's doing well."

"She is. In fact, she will be allowed to leave with me within the hour," Hannibal stuffed his hands in his pockets, a smug smolder on his face.

"You need a break. Let me take her with me for the night. I can take care of her."

"Why would she want to do that?" Hannibal was obviously resisting the urge to pounce on Alana, who was standing her ground, "Ophelia is in a delicate state, especially with the cocktail of medicines that she has been filled with. What she wants and what she needs is proper care."

"She needs to relax, Hannibal, not to be coddled."

"I'm not coddling, Alana. Am I, Ophelia?"

Ophelia looked from Alana, to Hannibal, and back again, "Um, I-"

"She just doesn't want to offend you. Ophelia needs a friend. Perhaps now is the time to allow her that. She's not going anywhere, obviously. Just... movies and dinner. Then medicine and sleep. Harmless."

"What she needs is to _come home_," Hannibal clenched and unclenched his jaw, rubbing his hands along the hard line of his jaw as his face dissolved into a full glower, "Ridiculous. She was stabbed, Alana. This is not some silly playground accident. She needs _me_."

"Hannibal," Ophelia tried her best to look small and innocent, "Please? I'd like to spend the night with Alana. Just this once. I'm fine, my stomach is fine. Tomorrow I'll come back to you." She straightened in her chair, breathing steadily and deeply through the throbbing in her abdomen. When she truly focused, it did not seem quite so bad.

He licked his lips and stuffed his hands roughly into his pockets again, "Fine. Alana, I'll be expecting her back in the morning. Early."

"Thank you," Ophelia batted her eyelashes and smiled sweetly, "I promise I'll be okay." She knew that he would give. If he truly was as possessive as he had proven to be, he could not deny her this.

A nurse entered the room, skirting around Hannibal and handing her a clipboard, "Sign these, turn them in at the front desk, and you'll be free to go," she bent down to Ophelia, addressing her as if she were a child, "Come back the minute your stomach or your head starts to give you any trouble."

"Yes ma'am," Ophelia saluted the nurse. The petite woman turned her nose up at Hannibal and disappeared amongst the sea of scrubs. He followed her, protestations in regards to her medication on his lips. Ophelia scrawled her looping signature on the dotted lines in silence.

Alana looked up at the clock on the wall, "We should get going. Ten o'clock, right?"

"Right," Ophelia wheeled herself to where her duffel bag had been shoved halfway underneath her bed and hoisted it onto her lap, "At the coffee shop across from Hannibal's office."

"We have a few hours," Alana stood grabbing ahold of Ophelia's wheelchair and pushing toward the exit, "We'll get you changed and get some real food in you, then we'll go. Are you tired?"

"No," Ophelia muttered, "I'm just ready to hear what Will has to say."

Alana's home was on the outskirts of town, quite near where Ophelia had first encountered her father. It was a small, cheery little place, quite befitting elegant Alana. It was full of dogs, though, which Ophelia did not expect. Despite Alana's protests they all bombarded Ophelia with barks, tail wags, and sloppy kisses. Ophelia laughed and smiled so hard that she forgot that the stitches in her stomach had begun to smart.

With the help of Alana, she changed into a pair of cotton shorts and an enormous and cumbersome sweatshirt. She silently thanked Hannibal for packing with her numerous injuries in mind.

Alana kept the mood as lighthearted as she could, but she continued to glance at the clock every few minutes, waiting desperately for the time to come when they would travel to see Will across town. She cooked a quick meal for Ophelia; it was nothing as extravagant as Hannibal would have fixed, but she was grateful for the opportunity to eat a normal meal where she could easily name every ingredient on the plate. They sat in the living room, surrounded by dogs, Alana on the couch and Ophelia in her wheelchair, while they ate. Their conversation was forcibly light as well; they chatted about film, music, and boys. Ophelia told Alana all about her life before her father's influence. She felt thankful for Alana, and how she was allowing her to just babble about any menial thing that came to mind. Ophelia realized quickly as they chatted how desperately she had needed a normal friend and not an obsessive protector.

By the time half past nine rolled around, Ophelia was quite worn out. Without constant access to pain medication, her entire abdomen was throbbing and her head pounding. She downed a few tablets of ibuprofen, then wheeled herself out to Alana's car. With great difficulty, she slid into the passenger seat, gingerly settling in while Alana folded the wheelchair and put it in the trunk.

"That chair is a pain," Ophelia muttered as Alana turned the ignition.

"It's a necessary evil. You'll be out of it soon. It's just that if you put too much stress on your torso, you'll end up hurting yourself again," Alana smiled ruefully, "And that would mean more nurses and more Hannibal."

Ophelia snorted, "That's not gonna happen."

The rest of the ride proceeded in silence, with Ophelia staring blankly out of the window and Alana focused on the dark back roads of Baltimore. Before either of them were truly prepared, they arrived at the meeting spot, right on time.

"Look, I don't know what Will has planned," Alana turned to Ophelia, her face serious, "but I trust him. Completely. He's one of the only people I know who I would entrust with my life. I know he has the best intentions. When Will heard your story, he knew you were a kindred spirit and you had to be helped. He's going to help you, no matter what you decide to do."

"Will _you_ help me?" Ophelia's voice was small. She could feel the universe shifting, as if something enormous was about to happen.

"Of course," Alana stroked Ophelia's hair, a gesture that was full of piteous affection.

With Alana pushing her wheelchair, they made their way down the nearly deserted sidewalk to the front window of The Coffee Bean, the little shop across the way from Hannibal's dark office. Ophelia had come here once or twice on days that were particularly stuffed with appointments. She knew Hannibal's coffee order by heart.

Will awaited them on the bench underneath the glowing "Open" sign. He stood as soon as he saw them approaching.

"We should go inside," he said, holding the door of the cafe open, "It would be safer in there."

Alana complied wordlessly, wheeling Ophelia inside and to the nearest table. The barista, a dough faced girl named Maria, rushed over to help clear a space at the table for Ophelia's wheelchair. She demanded to know the story behind the chair, but Ophelia insisted it was nothing and refused to comment more on the situation. They each ordered coffees and sat in formal silence until they were sure they were alone.

"I appreciate that you came so willingly," Will muttered, gripping his steaming mug in both large hands, "I also appreciate that you trust me."

Ophelia responded with a single nod.

Will continued, "So I've given it some more thought, and I really would encourage you to come to Cambridge with me. You'll be safe there. We'll _both_ be safe. Unknown, new, secure. It makes me sick knowing what Hannibal Lecter could still do to you. To both of us."

For a moment, while the trio sipped their coffee, Ophelia studied Will's face. He looked so very tired, with dark circles under his kind eyes and his curly hair shooting off in every direction. His mouth hung in a permanent frown, and stubble covered his jaw. Holding his mug, Will's fingers drummed erratically with anticipation and trepidation.

"Okay," Ophelia finally answered, her voice no more than a whisper, "I'm in. I trust you. But more than anything, I trust Alana. She's vouched for you, and that's good enough for me."

"You are?" Will almost seemed surprised, "That's- that's fantastic. You'll be safe with me. Neither of us are going to be victimized by Hannibal Lecter any longer."

"So what's the plan?" Ophelia downed her coffee, suddenly filled with the adrenaline of the impending action, "How are we going to do this?"

"I'll take care of the logistics," Alana interjected, "Plane tickets, new identification, all that." She whipped out her phone and started tapping away at the screen.

"Great, Alana," Will placed his hand on her wrist and squeezed, "Ophelia, you and I need to get our things in order. I can be packed in a day, but you need to be more careful. If need be, you can simply pack a small bag of essentials and we can get you all new things when we arrive in Cambridge."

"When do I need to be ready?" Ophelia took a deep, resolute breath.

"The next direct flight to Cambridge is the day after tomorrow," Alana looked up from her phone, "Noon, out of LaGuardia."

"Can we make that?" Will looked to Ophelia for approval.

"Yeah," Ophelia leaned back in her wheelchair, "How far is it from here to New York?"

"About four hours. If we want to make that flight we'll have to leave town by seven."

"Fine," Ophelia nodded, beginning to feel an apprehensive fluttering in her stomach just beneath the stitches, "Hannibal has appointments all day; I'm sure I can slip out."

"That's good," Will finished off his coffee, "Alana can come for you at six-thirty, Tuesday morning. Can you, Alana?"

She nodded, her eyes glued to her phone again, "I'll have new identification papers for you then, too. And your plane tickets."

"What are you going to do about Hannibal?" Will sighed, "He's not stupid; he'll know something's going on if you start packing your things."

Ophelia frowned, rubbing her fingers across her lips as a nerve-wracking, gut-wrenching idea popped into her head, "I think I know what to do." She knew that she had to make him believe, without a doubt, that she would not leave him, and that they were connected indefinitely. An effective distraction and false reassurance.

"Good," Will daren't ask what she had in mind.

"Hey," Maria called to them from behind the counter, bursting their tense bubble, "We're closing. Sorry. Take your coffee to go, if you want."

Ophelia caught a glimpse of the clock, and suddenly her entire body realized what time it was. Her eyes began to droop and her mind began to blur. She yawned, covering her mouth with her hands.

"Take her home," Will stood, patting Ophelia clumsily on the shoulder, "I'll see you in two days, when we're not Will Graham and Ophelia Ford anymore."

With great effort, Ophelia pushed herself up out of her wheelchair and stood upright before Will. She held out her hand to him and he took it, shaking it firmly. A sign of camaraderie. She and Alana then watched as Will bustled from the cafe and disappeared into the night.

Alana began to push Ophelia back down into the chair, but she swatted her hand away and declared resolutely, "I'm going to walk."


	15. Chapter 15

**Warning: Sexually Explicit Content! **

* * *

Ophelia sat in her room, staring at herself in the mirror. The clock on the bedside table read eleven o'clock. A plane would leave for England in thirteen hours. Hannibal was downstairs doing some work in the sitting room. All was peaceful. All was quiet. Her last night as Ophelia Ford.

She continued to run a brush through her hair. Though it already fell in silky waves around her face, Ophelia continued on, her stomach clenching and her heart pounding. In a whirl, she threw the brush down onto the armoire across from her and began to dig through the drawers, extracting two small orange bottles of pills that she had smuggled out of the hospital. They were prescription meds, and strong ones at that. One label read "Lortab" and then was proceeded by a long list of multisyllabic words that she would never even attempt to pronounce. And the other "Dianoxyl". She recognized that one; it was a steroid that her old roommate would take before volleyball games.

Ophelia downed two of each, followed by a swig of water. Almost immediately they began to work, the Lortab muting all the pain in her abdomen and head. The Dianoxyl felt like a shock, as if her entire body had been plugged into a light socket. Her fingertips tingled and her eyes dilated.

She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, crinkling her nose in rueful distaste. While Hannibal had gone down to finish up a bit of work, Ophelia had snuck into his room, against her better judgement. But instead, she had rifled through his drawers in search of a shirt. She had chosen the blood red button down that he had worn only once before; red would be the color to do the trick. After re-folding the shirts that she had disturbed while looking for the red one, she had scurried back to her room, shutting and locking the door behind her.

Whereas earlier Ophelia had been clothed comfortably in a pair of shorts and a sweater, she now stood before the mirror, scant of such comforts. She had put on her least favorite set of underthings; a lacy black bra and a pair of black underwear that could barely pass for a swatch of fabric. Over that, she had sloppily fastened two of the buttons on Hannibal's shirt, letting the sleeves fall over her hands and the top fall off one shoulder.

She hadn't done this since high school. The whole sex thing had never been all that appealing. Though it was nice when it happened, once years ago, it had been at a graduation party, and both judgements had been impaired. College had not been the pace for Ophelia to sleep around; she had only wanted to work. So now she was a bit rusty and more than a bit nervous.

Now, she stood, a face fresh with makeup and skin fresh with scented lotion, preparing to use her "femininity" as a weapon. Sure, it wasn't the most conventional way to handle a situation, but the situation itself was in no way conventional. Ophelia knew that there was no possible scenario in which she would be allowed out of Hannibal's sight unless he was completely assured that his hold over her was more than secure. She wasn't stupid; the kiss had not been forgotten.

Ophelia curled her bare toes against the cold floor and sighed. For a moment, she doubted whether or not this plan would even work. Maybe Hannibal would laugh in her face and send her off to bed with a pat on the head and a cup of tea. Maybe he would ignore her entirely. Or maybe he would respond more... positively. Ophelia's stomach turned and fluttered at the thought. She couldn't deny her attraction to him. He was a powerful man, both in presence and in appearance. And they _had_ grown close, no matter what Hannibal's intentions really were. Despite all that, though, Ophelia knew that it was a situation that she had to get out of. Quickly.

As the drugs began to take more of an effect on Ophelia's mind, her doubts began to melt away, only to be replaced by brazen confidence. She scrunched up her hair at the roots a bit, adjusted her bra, and took a deep breath. Downstairs, she could hear the rustle of papers and the scratching of Hannibal's pen.

"Now or never, Ophelia," she told herself, flinging her hair over her shoulders and marching out into the hallway. The moment she began to descend the stairs, she tried her best to slink. She had seen the way women had done it in movies; they swung their hips, their hands hanging languidly at their sides. Perhaps she could be as convincing as them.

Hannibal sat facing the doorway, hunched over a file full to bursting with papers. His hair, usually immaculate, fell messily over his face, obscuring his eyes. A glass of wine, half full, sat on the edge of the table. After a moment of deep concentration, Hannibal reached for it and took a meticulous sip. He obviously had not seen her.

Ophelia leaned against the doorway as casually as she could and cleared her throat. She folded her arms and tossed her hair as he looked up, his face freezing. Ophelia could almost see his thought process. At first, he made a valiant attempt to stay emotionless and calculating. But as soon as she cracked the slightest smile, something clicked behind his eyes and his lips began to curl.

"Why do you need to do all of this _now_?" Ophelia pouted, sashaying toward him and plucking the papers from his hands, tossing them onto the couch beside him, "I think you should take a break." She slunk around the back of the couch running the tips of her fingers along his shoulders. He shivered.

"You seem to be in quite a mood tonight," Hannibal muttered, never taking his eyes off of hers as she came around to the front of the couch again. He reached up and snatched her wrist, holding her still.

For a moment, Ophelia knew not whether he was rejecting her advance, but then he pulled her toward him, his other hand latching onto the hem of her shirt and using it to guide her. She took initiative, pushing him back against the sofa with her other hand and straddling his lap. He did not move as she leaned down and brushed her lips against the hollow of his jaw and downward. But still, he did not move. He simply sat beneath her, his hands resting lightly on her hips.

"What are you doing, Doctor Lecter?" Ophelia breathed into his ear. Her hands ran up the front of his torso and over his shoulders.

Hannibal smirked, his grip tightening on her hips, "I'm trying to decide whether or not you know what you're getting yourself into, Miss Ford."

Ophelia bit her bottom lip, tossing her hair over one shoulder and rocking back on his lap so she could look into his eyes. She nodded, running her hands down Hannibal's chest and over his shoulders beneath his jacket. With a languid sigh, she rocked forward again, winding her hips in lazy figure-eights and skimming her lips over his jaw.

Suddenly, with a burst of carnal intensity, Hannibal grabbed her hips with both of his hands and pulled her roughly against him. His hands slid down over her thighs, lingering there for a torturously long moment. He knew that he could play Ophelia's body like a fiddle.

"I don't think you do," he growled, one hand knotting in her hair, holding her head still. His eyes darkened as he leaned forward, his lips pressing lightly against her throat. The hand that rested on her thigh slid upward ever so slowly, until the tips of his fingers found the lace that was hidden beneath the shirt.

As Hannibal pulled Ophelia into a deep, smoldering kiss, his hands wandered, exploring every inch of her while she was so close, so vulnerable. She wound her hands around his neck, allowing his hands to wander over her rear, then up her back and to her chest. She sighed against his lips as his hands slipped beneath the straps of her bra, making small circles over her collarbone. It felt as if every inch of skin that he touched had been set aflame.

"Hold tight," Hannibal commanded, hooking his hands beneath her haunches and standing.

Ophelia latched her legs around his waist as he stood, carting her upstairs. He kicked open the bedroom doors, kissing her with an intensity that far surpassed their previous encounter. He tossed her roughly onto his bed, slipping off his jacket as she landed amongst the pillows. Ophelia crawled toward him on all fours, his shirt slipping from her shoulders.

"I do believe this is mine, Miss Ford," Hannibal's voice was rough and deep, almost a growl, as he loomed over her, his hands knotting in the front of the shirt.

"Take it, then," Ophelia breathed, sitting up on her knees and stretching upward so that her face was nearly level with his. The smell of his cologne mingled with the floral aroma of her lotion. Beads of sweat began to form on their skin. The feeling of unspoken desire was the only tangible energy in the room. Unspoken desire, and an untamable heat.

Hannibal grasped the hem of the shirt and snatched it over her head, ruffling her hair and almost exposing her entirely. He pulled her face up to his, kissing her roughly and leaning her back onto the bed. Ophelia fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and the clasp on his trousers, clumsily pulling them away from his body and tossing them aside. She gripped his shoulders as she felt the clasp of her bra snap. He wrenched it aside, pressing himself down against her, and her breath caught in her throat, a familiar tickle beginning to build in the pit of her stomach.

Hannibal trailed his mouth along her jawline and down her neck, letting his teeth knick her pristine skin every once in a while. He left his mark there; a droplet of her blood appeared just below her jaw. Hannibal inhaled its scent deeply, then wrenched Ophelia's head back and ran his tongue over the small prick of blood. Ophelia's hands knotted in Hannibal's hair, a small moan escaping her parted lips. Hannibal felt a jolt of heat and energy fire through him. He took her in for a moment, entirely vulnerable and submissive beneath him. She quivered with anticipation, her legs itching to wrap around him again, and her hands grasping at his hair.

And then in one motion, Hannibal pulled Ophelia's wrists away from him and pinned them above her head. Entirely dominant, he thrust into her. She gasped, back arching, hips bucking, and fingers curling against his hands as he turned animalistic, a growl growing in his chest with each movement. Hannibal sat back, pulling her with him, their bodies still intertwined. He grasped the back of her neck with one hand, and the small of her back with the other as she rolled her hips against his. Hannibal, teeth clenched, held Ophelia's face level with his. The spot of blood on her neck had appeared again.

He thrust forward as she continued to roll her hips, and Ophelia threw her head back, a gasp and a shriek of pleasure clawing its way up her throat. Hannibal's lips curled into a snarl as he aggressively pulled her face back down to his. His hand covered the back of her neck and held it there, their heavy breaths mingling in a steamy heat.

Taking Hannibal entirely by surprise, Ophelia thrust all of her weight forward, pushing him onto his back. He tried to regain control, but Ophelia snaked her body against his, and he submitted. She took his hands in hers and guided them over her bare body, bringing them to rest on her chest. As she rocked back and forth, holding Hannibal's hands in place, she felt the bubble in the pit of her stomach begin to waver. Goosebumps began to appear on her skin. The hair at the back of Hannibal's neck stood on end.

But the power struggle continued as Hannibal latched a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face beside his. The other hand clasped firmly on her backside.

"Don't test me, Ophelia," he muttered, each syllable accented with a rough thrust. He flipped her back onto the bed, stomach down, and loomed over her. He held her head still with a hand around her neck as he reached down between her legs. She shuddered, her back arching against his chest.

He held her there for a moment, her back pressed against him, then breathed in her ear, "I'll take you just how I want you, and there's nothing you can do about it." His grip between her legs tightened, and she whimpered.

He took her again, dominant and animalistic, relishing every moan and gasp that came from her. It was clear that they were both reaching their ends. In the last few moments, he turned Ophelia around to face him. Hannibal wanted to see her eyes.

As they both began to unravel entirely, Hannibal dug the tips of his fingers into Ophelia's skin, while her fingernails raked down his back, leaving long, stinging red marks in their wake. Electricity ran through their tightly wound bodies, shaking their foundations and turning their minds silent. For a moment, the only sensations they could feel were each other. Hannibal, tasting the sweet spice of Ophelia's lips, listening to her short, whimpering breaths, and feeling her soft skin quiver beneath his fingers. And Ophelia, seeing nothing but the chocolate of his eyes.

Hannibal fell back onto the tousled sheets, pulling Ophelia down with him. They lay there in silence for a moment, Ophelia splayed across his strong body, and Hannibal holding her there.

"Stay," he commanded, closing his eyes. For a moment, Ophelia feared he had found her out, but then she realized what he really meant.

Ophelia waited for a long while before she dared to move. Hannibal looked so peaceful when he slept. It was as if everything that he had done, and everything that she had learned about him was a ruse, and that she had seen the real Hannibal that night. She felt a pang of sadness and guilt as she crept back to her room. Unable to sleep, she slipped into a pair of jeans and an old knit sweater and began to make herself look a bit less tousled. After she had pulled her hair into a braid and reapplied a bit of the makeup that had been wiped off, she finished packing her bags.

At one o'clock, Ophelia was still wide awake. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection, trying to think of anything but Hannibal. It was wholly impossible, though; she was too attached, though she was afraid. That night had surely meant something. It had to be more than just a tryst. Thoughts battled in Ophelia's head until morning.

The only thing keeping her company until Alana arrived was the hooting of an owl.


	16. Chapter 16

Hannibal Lecter stood on the outskirts of an enormous crowd that nearly completely filled a wide room made of marble. He stood quite still; the room was such a massive thing to take in. It was circular, with majestic columns and painted glass windows alternating all around. How the windows managed to fit into a curved wall, he would never comprehend. Into the columns were carved ornate floral designs, as if roses and lilies had grown into the stone and perished there, leaving a print behind. The ceiling was an equally ornate dome, lit with thousands of what appeared to be crystal constellations. Elaborately painted scenes surrounded the lit crystals, creating stories within the constellations.

The inhabitants of the room, though, were in stark contrast to the beauty of the room. From where Hannibal stood, clothed entirely in black, he watched the crowd undulate and buzz like a mass of feeding animals. They were all people, that was certain. But they were all cloaked in unappealing browns and grays. Their faces, where eyes, noses, and mouths should have resided, were entirely blank. They were all blank slates of flesh. It was a wonder to Hannibal how they were communicating amongst themselves, as they seemed to be.

Hannibal wrinkled his nose, skirting the group. He stayed as close to the marble as he could, for fear of being sucked into the faceless rabble. They were like animals. Rude and uncivilized.

But then he caught a glimpse of white through the mass of dirt brown. His eyes locked onto it as it disappeared and reappeared again behind the faceless masses. At first he could not discern who this white speck of light was, but then it was all too obvious.

His Ophelia stood at the opposite end of the room, seemingly just as taken with her surroundings as he was. She was draped in a white cloth that seemed akin to mist, fluttering over her delicate frame. Hannibal's stone heart shifted at the sight of her. Ophelia's eyes were trained on the crowd before her, fingers winding absentmindedly at her hair. It was as if the air around her glowed; she was surely a welcome sight.

Hannibal opened his mouth to call to her, but suddenly music struck up from somewhere in the room. The brown sea froze at the sound of the first chord, and Ophelia furrowed her brows, taking a small step back. Seeing this as an opportunity, Hannibal began to weave through the edge of the crowd toward her. But the music started again, and the faceless browns began to dance. They all danced in pairs, a waltz-like step that they all seemed to innately know.

Across the room, Ophelia was pulled into the dance by one of the faceless. She fell into stride immediately, as if she had been born with the knowledge of this dance. Hannibal was wholly confused; he seemed to be the only one not dancing. Nevertheless, he continued to make every attempt to reach Ophelia, who had not seen him. He proved unsuccessful, though, for every step he took toward her seemed to put him further on the outskirts of the dancing sea of faceless men and women. Hannibal could only watch as Ophelia was tossed from partner to partner as the music swelled. She twirled and dipped and spun, her face flushed and her eyes alight. Hannibal was tempted to simply watch her dance. He had never gotten the opportunity to witness Ophelia doing what she loved, and it was a sight to behold. She quite resembled a bird, flying from one partner to the next.

But then it stopped quite abruptly, and the faceless browns froze. Their arms held aloft and their legs pointed in deep lunges, they froze. All except Ophelia, who jumped away from her partner as if she had been shocked. Eyes wide, she turned in circles, looking for an explanation as to why all but she had turned to stone. And, finally, she saw Hannibal. She stopped, realizing that she was not alone in the sea of the faceless statues.

Relief flooded his body when their eyes met. Her face melted into a smile, and in a flurry of white she bounded toward him, weaving around frozen torsos and hopping over outstretched legs.

"Ophelia," Hannibal sighed warmly, ducking beneath a frozen arm, "I was-"

But the music began again, and Ophelia was wrenched away from his line of sight by a faceless man. He, also, was pulled into the dance this time, for he had joined the ranks of the group. Hannibal did not want to be in the clutches of this woman, though. He needed to find his Ophelia, and take her away from the man who had a hold on her. Across the room from him, Ophelia struggled to break free as well. But every time she took a step toward Hannibal, she was pulled away again.

They danced from person to person, obeying the flow of the room, using it to their advantage. If they obeyed, they both figured, they would reach each other eventually. Hannibal craned his neck as the sea of dancers moved in a circular motion around the room. Every so often, he would catch a glimpse of Ophelia, and he would switch partners, moving a step closer to the center. She would do the same. Their eyes constantly searched for one another.

Suddenly, as the music slowed abruptly, they found themselves face to face in the center of the group. All around them, the faceless rocked slowly to the markedly different tune. Black and white were now an island, isolated in the sea of brown.

But Hannibal noticed nothing but Ophelia. He swept a stray curl out of her eyes and ran the tips of his fingers down the side of her face. She leaned her head into his hand ever so slightly, and his stone heart shifted again.

"May I have this dance?" he muttered, bowing theatrically. She giggled and curtsied, her cheeks flaming red.

They fell immediately into a simple waltz step, their bodies pressed close together, and their faces inches apart. For a moment, they simply relished each other's company, their steps small and far from impassioned. But as the music began to swell again, they came alive. Hannibal had never fancied himself much of a dancer, but with Ophelia it was as if it was what he had been born to do. He actually found himself laughing and smiling more genuinely than he had in quite some time as he lifted her into the air in time with a grand crescendo.

But, suddenly, as they fell back into hold, Ophelia jolted to a stop abruptly, along with the music. She stopped as if her back had rammed into something solid, though they remained in the empty center of the dance floor. Her face went pale, and her mouth fell open, her eyes wide and full of shock. The sea around them froze.

Before Hannibal had a chance to ask her what was the matter, great black prongs shot outward from her chest and through her stomach. Blood spattered from her mouth as she was impaled by the massive spikes. Her mouth hung open, a gasp of surprise hanging on her lips. Hannibal stumbled back as crimson soaked her white torso and her head lolled forward. His hands clutched at his hair in desperation. Shock froze a scream in his throat.

He spun away from her skewered body, only to find a faceless man standing next to Ophelia, very much alive. Hannibal stopped, his hands still held aloft.

"Ophelia?" Hannibal spluttered. She had just been skewered like a rack of lamb directly before his eyes, and yet here she stood. Unstained with her own blood, she gazed icily at him as he started toward her.

Before she could respond, the faceless man grabbed Ophelia around the waist and pulled her away from Hannibal. He lunged forward, but before he could reach them, the man pulled a butcher knife from out of thin air and slashed Ophelia's throat. Hannibal let out a wordless bellow as Ophelia crumpled on the floor and the faceless man stepped away, disappearing into the darkness that had descended upon the room. She coughed and spluttered on the floor below him.

He stumbled backward again, once again turning to face a third Ophelia and a third faceless figure. This time, Ophelia's neck was snapped in one fell motion, and Hannibal wheeled away as she fell to the floor, dead.

All around him, Ophelias were perishing. A fourth was bludgeoned with a blunt figurine. A fifth was set ablaze. A sixth, seventh, and eighth were mutilated beyond recognition. Everywhere he turned, Ophelia died. And it seemed as if there was no escape from them. When he thought he has come full circle, Hannibal was only met with an impaled, lifeless Ophelia, hanging from the antlers like decorations on a rack.

Hannibal fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands. All he could hear was the sound of Ophelia's screams, each cut off with a _snap, thump,_ or _slice_.Sometimes they were cut off immediately, but more often than not they were long and agonizing. It was the most horrible, horrendous thing he had ever heard, and he wanted nothing more than silence. He covered his head with his arms and howled wordlessly, willing it all to stop.

And it did. When he looked up again, the only Ophelia that was left was the one that was held aloft by antlers. Only now, she stared up at him, her eyes aware and her bloodstained lips hanging slightly open. Her skin was pale and her breathing was pained. But she was alive.

Hannibal scrambled forward. He knelt so that he could be face to face with his dying Ophelia. His hands fluttered around the prongs that protruded from her torso, but he knew not what to do for her.

"You made me this way," Ophelia muttered, her voice no more than a husky whisper.

"Ophelia," Hannibal took her face in his hands, "I had not intended for this to be your fate."

"It's okay," Ophelia's lips curled into a weak smile, her eyes fluttering as she struggled to stay conscious, "I love you anyway." She coughed and a bit of black blood splattered onto the front of Hannibal's shirt. And then her head went limp in his hands. The antlers dissolved and she fell into his lap, blood no longer pooling beneath her. Hannibal pulled her into his arms. He cradled her body against his chest. All around him, the faceless sea grew closer, looming over him. Watching.

* * *

Hannibal's eyes flew open, his pupils dilating and shrinking wildly. He was drenched in sweat, the sheets nearly entirely thrown from the bed. As his racing heartbeat slowed, he cast a glance around the room. Slowly he remembered where he truly was, and what had truly transpired the night before. He let his face fall into his hands. It had been a dream and nothing more. Ophelia was here, and she was very much alive.

He patted the empty bed next to him, expecting to find her sleeping there. But the dark room was entirely devoid of her presence.

"An early riser for once," Hannibal chuckled, sliding from bed and fumbling around for clothes, ignoring the disastrous state of his bed. Cleanliness was not his primary concern this morning.

His primary concern was Ophelia. _His_ Ophelia. The bond that he had known they shared had been sealed, and they were bound. Hannibal had never expected to find such kinship, such companionship, but he had. The mere thought of Ophelia made his icy demeanor soften.

He emerged from his dark, cave-like room and stretched, his joints popping and an involuntary moan escaping his lips. He sighed and hurried down the stairs, eager to greet his Ophelia.

But she was not in the sitting room. Nor was she in the kitchen or the dining room. Hannibal frowned, unsettled at the silence that met him in every room. He hastened back upstairs, peeking again into his room, just to make sure he hadn't overlooked her in the mass of his sheets. He then knocked at the bathroom door, but was met with no cheerful response.

"Ophelia?" he burst into her bedroom, hoping ever so desperately to find her at the foot of her bed, doing her hair into a braid as she so often did.

But there was no trace of his Ophelia in that room. The bed was made and the curtains were pulled neatly open. The closet door was ajar, and the racks were empty. Her bags were absent from their usual pile in the corner of the room.

Hannibal turned and ran from the room, "Ophelia!" he called, "Ophelia!" He nearly threw himself down the stairs. He called her name over and over, but there was no cheerful reply or smiling face to greet him as he dashed through the foyer.

Out onto the sidewalk he ran. His hair askew, and his pajamas twisted around his torso, he spun around. Her name froze on his lips.

She was gone.


	17. Chapter 17

By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow, Ophelia's stomach was crippled with pain. The stitches felt as if they were about to burst, and the muscles of her abdomen felt completely obliterated. She sat in the small, worn out plane seat next to Will nearly hunched over and frozen as nearly every inch of her skin throbbed. The back of her neck was stiff and littered with small, circular bruises, and her legs felt like limp noodles. Not to mention her head was throbbing from the rough landing.

She took her new ID card from her wallet and turned it over a few times, memorizing everything she could about her new life as the pilot waited to pull the plane up to the gate.

"Nora Spencer," it read, next to a picture of Ophelia and a run-down of fictional information. Alana had set it up so that Ophelia and Will were a brother and sister pair from Florida, whose lives had changed on a radical whim when they decided to pick up and move. Ophelia pursed her lips. She would have at least picked a better name.

Will was now known in most record books as "Jack Spencer", a criminal psychiatrist whose endeavors in Florida had become too monotonous. All of his colleagues at Cambridge had been briefed of the situation before their arrival by Alana Bloom, who had virtually orchestrated every aspect of their lives right down to their living quarters.

"Welcome to Heathrow, and thank you for flying American Airlines," the pilot's gravelly voice blared through the speakers, making Ophelia cringe.

Will stood, reaching up into the compartments above the seats to retrieve their rather minimal baggage. They both had only packed a single, small case stuffed tight with only essentials; Ophelia had left behind all of her Chi Omega shirts and fancy dresses. She missed them already.

"Nora," Will cleared his throat, holding his bag out to Ophelia, who was still staring out the window at the dreary sky. She pushed herself out of her seat, grimacing at the sharp pain that shot through her torso.

"Thanks," she said through gritted teeth.

"Are you okay?" Will held his hand out to her, helping her out of the row of seats and into the aisle, "You've looked terrible the whole flight."

She forced a laugh, "Thanks, but yeah I'm fine. Just tired, I guess."

"How's the..." he motioned to her stomach as they started shuffling toward the exit, bags clutched tight, "injury?"

"Fine," Ophelia waved him away, "Just wish I had brought some painkillers, that's all."

"We can go to the doctor-"

"No, it's fine. Really. I just want to get home."

She hated snapping at Will. He was, after all, the reason she was escaping an undeniably grim fate. But she hadn't slept since her time in the hospital, and the weight of the past days' events had begun to grow enormously overwhelming.

Will put his hand on Ophelia's back, guiding her up the ramp from the plane and out into the airport. It was nearly empty, though it was just past midnight. Ophelia was taken by surprise for a moment; she had never been confronted with such a time change before. It was no wonder her internal clock was thrown off.

"There's a car parked and waiting for us outside the west terminal," Will muttered, taking Ophelia by the arm and leading her down the linoleum walkway through the terminals, his bag swinging by his side.

"Who put it there?" Ophelia looked up at him, surprised that their escape had been so elaborately planned.

"Alana has a lot of friends," his mouth pursed into a small smile and he sighed, adjusting his glasses. Ophelia had not let his affection for her go unnoticed. She made a mental note to ask him about it later. They would make an adorable couple, she thought.

Will and Ophelia carried on in silence. They drove through London, surprisingly quiet for that time of night. Once their small, compact car passed the city limits, nearly all activity came to a screeching halt. The countryside was dark, only dotted occasionally with the distant lights of small towns and hamlets. Ophelia spent the majority of the drive staring out of the window, her forehead resting against the cool glass. In the silence, she could think.

Alana had assured her that her name was cleared in the states, and the FBI was steering the Chi Omega case away from her entirely and in the direction of her father. Beverly Katz and a small team of forensic scientists had begun to run autopsies and tests on Thomas's body, a process that Ophelia wished to have no part of. Thanks to Freddie Lounds, she was in no way associated with the murders in the public eye as well. In fact, most media outlets were painting her as a victim because of her sudden disappearance.

In short, Ophelia Ford had died while Nora Spencer had been born. She wondered whether she would like this new "self" that had been given to her. Surprisingly, she couldn't think of many things about being Ophelia Ford that she would miss. She could make this new Nora Spencer character exciting, fun, and free. Nora Spencer could be an artist. She could be an adventurer, or a connoisseur of fine wines and foods. Ophelia Ford had been a nothing. Ophelia Ford stood for nothing. No one would notice that Ophelia Ford had died and Nora Spencer had been born.

But she was wrong. Across the ocean, Ophelia Ford refused to perish.

* * *

The sound of the man's voice was grating, pounding against Hannibal's ears. Whereas usually he sat at attention, taking in everything that his patients said, he sat hunched in his chair, his eyes focused past the man's head and at the small, faded shirt that was draped over his desk chair. His hair fell over his eyes, which were ringed with a dark reflection of many sleepless nights.

Hannibal and his patient were only barely illuminated in the misty, grey light of the rainy August day. The windows that stood tall on the wall beside them were pulled only halfway closed, casting a bar of grey across each of their faces. The rest of the room was dark and devoid of life.

"And I mean, what am I supposed to do about it, right? It's not like I can just snap my fingers and fix it for her," the man, Ronald Beasley, scoffed and wiped his snotty nose on a tissue and tossed it onto the glass table by his chair. Hannibal noted it, but did not feel the desire to act on it.

"Women, right, Doctor Lecter?" Ronald sighed, sniffing loudly, "They're all just life-sucking leeches. All of 'em. They just come into your life, bat their eyelashes, do a little dance and suddenly _poof_! Your wallet's empty and so is your bed. Because they skimp out! Yeah, who cares. What- what are you looking at?" Ronald turned in his chair, the buttons on his tweed jacket straining against his massive gut. His beady eyes scanned the dark recesses of the room for what Hannibal had been so intently focused on.

"Nothing," Hannibal sat up, trying to draw Ronald's attention back to the matter at hand, "Tell me, Ronald, how long have you and your wife been at such odds?"

But Ronald was locked onto the yellow swatch of fabric, like a hound tracking a kill, which stood out in stark contrast to the dark, muted colors of the office. He left his thinning bar of grey light and lumbered into the darkness.

"What is this?" he flipped on the lamp on Hannibal's desk and held the shirt aloft, "Chi Omega? Doctor Lecter, what on Earth have _you _been doing? You sly bastard. I never pegged you as one to go after college girls, but-"

"I think you should come sit down," Hannibal stood, clenching his fists in his pockets, "I'm sure you want to get your money's worth of your time."

Ronald stuffed the shirt to his face and inhaled, "Flowers. Good catch, Doctor Lecter." He began to ball up the shirt to toss it aside, but Hannibal rushed to him and snatched it from his clutches. He stared down at the grimy little man for a moment, eyes wide, teeth clenched, and hair falling in his face.

"Sit _down," _Hannibal barked "Mister Beasley." Ronald seemed stunned for a moment, but he shook it off and returned to his seat with an air of haughtiness about him. Hannibal stayed by his desk for a moment, clutching the shirt in his hands. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply. The intoxicating smell of flowers had been muddled by the harsh smell of cheap drugstore cologne. Hannibal could feel monstrous wrath clawing at his ribcage. The only bit of her that was left: soiled.

Hannibal cleared his throat, "Who knows you're here, Mister Beasley? Your wife?"

"Nah," he coughed into another napkin that seemed to have magically appeared in his pocket, "I told a bunch of people I was moving to Mexico to get them off my back. Why?"

"No reason," Hannibal sighed, smoothing the shirt out on the table again. He let his hand linger on the fabric for a moment, then slipped the golden letter opener by his schedule book into his hand. While Ronald continued to plow through tissues with his seemingly never-ending allergies, Hannibal approached him from behind, swiftly and silently.

And in one swift movement, Hannibal plunged the letter opener into Ronald's neck, precisely puncturing his carotid artery. Blood spurted from the deep puncture, splattering across Hannibal's face and down the front of his suit. Ronald spluttered and gasped, his hands flailing wildly in every direction.

"You soiled all I had left," Hannibal hissed in Ronald's ear, embracing the steady spurts of blood that were washing over his face, "You dirty, small, insignificant little man. I pity you." And with that, Ronald slowly began to go limp, the last bits of his life draining from his body.

Hannibal straightened his back in defiance; still at his desk, still clutching the shirt, he let the letter opener fall back onto the schedule book as Ronald went on to complain about his family. It would slide for today, as much as he would like his momentary flurry of imagination to play out.

He took a deep breath and slowly turned back to his patient, "Unless you are willing to endure another breakdown, Mister Beasley," Hannibal stuffed the shirt in his jacket pocket as he returned to his seat, "You should speak to your wife in the presence of a professional. A psychiatrist, lawyer, or otherwise."

"You, maybe?" Ronald suggested, "You're smart. You seem like the type that could understand women. I'll bring my wife next time."

"Fine," Hannibal fought the urge to roll his eyes, "Next Thursday, then, I will be glad to see your wife as well."

Ronald beamed, standing and holding his hand out to Hannibal, "Thanks a bunch, Doc. You're a huge help." Hannibal shook his hand reluctantly, then subtly wiped his palm on the side of his pants as the squat man made for the door.

"Have a good day," Hannibal faked a smile, following him to the door.

"You too," Ronald waved over his shoulder, "And good luck with the sorority girl!" He chortled all the way out of the office building and down the street to where his Honda was crookedly parked. Hannibal watched him go, the image of the letter opener floating before his eyes.

Hannibal endured the rest of his day with the same restrained anger; he thought of killing two more of his patients and brutally beating another. The only thing getting him through the endless droning of his patients was the yellow swatch of faded fabric that now rested securely in his pocket.

By the end of the day, the trials of his patients and the worry that he felt for Ophelia's safety had nearly worn him down entirely, but he still pushed himself to run a final errand before the sun had gone down. In silence, Hannibal drove through the busy streets of Baltimore, past the interstate and the run-down car repair shops that skirted the town limits, and out into the growing darkness. He had laid the Chi Omega shirt out on the seat beside him so that if he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, it almost looked as if she was there in the car with him.

The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane was an enormous concrete building that was surrounded on all sides by barbed wire, and by woods on three. They were the same woods in which Ophelia had seen her father. The guards at the doors knew Hannibal well; he had come to visit Will Graham many a time here. So he was allowed easy passage through the many levels of security in the dreary building, devoid of any hope.

Hannibal had always felt a sort of connection to Will Graham. Will had been the only person who he felt a real similarity to. He, Bedelia, and Ophelia were the only human beings who he felt any real emotion for. And with one of the three inexplicably missing, Hannibal felt he had to cling to what he had left.

"Can I help you?" the guard at the door to the hall where Will was kept stepped in Hannibal's path. He had never seen this enormous, heavily tattooed man here before.

"I'm here to see Will Graham," Hannibal explained, "My name is Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps he has spoken of me? I am his psychiatrist."

The guard scoffed, "Well unless your name is Alana Bloom and you're a five-foot-five brunette chick, I think you're not."

"I'm sorry?" Hannibal furrowed his brows. Alana was not presiding over Will; Hannibal had been.

"Yeah, they switched him over to Miss Bloom a few weeks ago. He bailed out just after she took him in. Guess she did the trick."

"He's not here?" Hannibal's stomach dropped, "Do you understand what crimes this man is responsible for?"

The guard shrugged, "Not my problem. If the FBI is allowing it, they're allowing it. Haven't heard from either of them since."

Hannibal turned and stormed out of the holding cell, down the hall, and out of the penitentiary, into the growing rain. The only thing keeping him innocent was out in the world, though under the watchful eye of Alana Bloom.

With a huff, he threw himself down into his car. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel and turned to grab Ophelia's shirt for a bit of comfort.

And then, pieces began to fall into place. Alana, Will, Ophelia. He had seen Alana in the hospital with his Ophelia. He had also seen a man, through the distant crowd of scrubs and medical paraphernalia, who had looked strangely like Will. Freddie Lounds had also come to visit Ophelia, but had conveniently vacated the premises when Hannibal arrived. All the time Ophelia had spent with Alana... had it also been spent with Will Graham?

Hannibal jerked his car into gear, spinning away from the curb outside the penitentiary and speeding down the road back into town. Streetlights turned to blurs of white light as he whipped around corners and through stop lights. Before the sun touched the horizon, Hannibal had arrived at the home of Alana Bloom, a cozy but substantial abode in the woods outside the opposite end of town. Her car was in the driveway, and the warm light of a fire burned in the living room window. The sound of barking dogs greeted him as he parked his car.

"Hannibal?" she opened the front door before he even had a chance to step onto the porch. A flood of dogs accompanied her. He knew them all too well; they had been Will's dogs.

"I must speak with you," Hannibal gritted his teeth, forgetting his manners entirely and barging past her.

"Do you want some... tea or coffee, or..." Alana shut the door tentatively behind her, clearly thrown off by his sudden appearance. She was caught entirely off guard; she stood before him in a fluffy bathrobe and a pair of pink socks. Her hair was pulled sloppily atop her head, and her eyes were magnified by thick glasses.

"Will Graham was released?" Hannibal spun to face her, his eyes beginning to burn with a familiar intensity, "Why was I not informed of this?"

"Because it wasn't your decision," Alana stood her ground, reaching down to scratch one of the dogs behind the ear without ever taking her eyes off of Hannibal, "And it wasn't entirely mine either."

"Whose was it then?"

"I don't need to justify the choices I make regarding my patients, Hannibal. Especially not to you. I know what's best for them more often than not, which is why I was entrusted with Will."

"So it _was_ your decision?" Hannibal turned away from her and began to stalk angrily from room to room, his eyes burning and his hands clenching into fists, "He's here then, is he? Are you hiding him out here until he's 'better', Alana? You know what he's done."

"Hannibal!" Alana jumped after him, "You have no right to come into my home like this. What do you think you're doing? What do you think you're going to _find_?"

He turned to her as he began to climb the stairs and pulled the Ophelia's shirt from his jacket pocket. It had been stuffed there in haste upon arriving.

"She's gone," Hannibal hissed, "And Will Graham knows something about her disappearance. I'm sure of it." Hannibal's steely professionalism was lost entirely. It was almost as if he was no longer Hannibal Lecter, but some great beast with fire in its soul and darkness in its heart.

"Hannibal," Alana'a voice was small, "Ophelia isn't gone because of Will. He's been locked up for months; he doesn't know that she exists."

"WHY IS SHE GONE, THEN?" Hannibal roared, balling up the shirt and throwing it onto the hardwood floor, "I wake up she's disappeared. Gone. All of her things, except that shirt. All gone. No explanation, no goodbye. She would _not_ do that. Not to me. Not my Ophelia."

Alana took a deep breath, "Let her go. Let her go, Hannibal. There's nothing to be done."

"What?" Hannibal took a few steps toward her, fists clenched and nostrils flared, "_Let her go?_ She could be hurt, Alana. She could have been taken. Forced away against her will."

"Hannibal," Alana gingerly placed a hand on his arm.

He slapped it away before she could continue, "You know something about this." And before she could deny it, Hannibal stormed toward the front door, dogs scattering like ants as he barged through.

"No, I don't," Alana gritted her teeth, "Just let her go, Hannibal. You were no good for her, anyway. And she was no good for you."

Hannibal froze with his hand on the doorknob, "She was the _only_ good I had."

Without another word, he stormed out into the night, leaving Alana standing dumbfounded in the doorway. She watched his car disappear into the darkness, feeling a sense of dread wash over her.

"I should have been more careful," Alana whispered into the night, "We all should have been more careful. Will, Ophelia, wherever you are, stay hidden. Stay safe. He's coming for you."


	18. Chapter 18

London was much greater of an expanse than Ophelia had imagined, or than she had prepared for. She had awoken that morning feeling ready to explore, or more so, to find a job. Will's teaching position at Cambridge was excellent, and would more than sustain one person. But they were in the woods together, and together was how they would survive.

Ophelia wandered along the sidewalk outside Victoria Station with a massive crowd of tourists, clutching her purse close to her side and smoothing her sweater down over her skirt every time the wind decided to make a mess of it. Cars and tall red busses zoomed by. The sounds of music, chatter, and sizzling food filled the air and floated from shop windows as she passed.

Will had gone to the university rather early, leaving Ophelia to do what she pleased. She had dressed quickly and headed out, entirely alone for the first time since before leaving Baltimore. While it was nice to have a bit of quiet, she felt as if Hannibal should appear any moment. Of course, he did not.

Before catching a train into London, she had grabbed a bite at a small eatery a few blocks away from the station. The waitress who had served her seemed entirely mesmerized by her American accent, and Ophelia entranced by hers. She had introduced herself, as Nora of course, then had been on her way, eager to find something to occupy her time in the city. The city itself made her feel quite like a small fish in a large pond, and it was obvious on her flushed face nearly all the time. The people she encountered were kind; they seemed to sense her nerves and her desire to simply blend into the crowd.

Ophelia only wished she could express her gratitude to Will, and also to Alana and Freddie. She figured the only way to really repay them for stepping out behind Hannibal's back was by refraining from becoming a hermit. It would be so easy to slip into a rut of lazy lackluster spirit, but Ophelia refused to let herself become that person. Surely there was nothing to be ungrateful for; she was in London, for goodness sakes. She had been given a rare opportunity: the opportunity to start over entirely. Ophelia should surely be happy. Excited, even. She should have to reason to think of home, or of what had been home. Her case closed and her name cleared, Ophelia had no reason to return to the states. She had escaped two morbid fates by leaving with Will.

Now she wove in and out of the crowd, stopping at stands of wares in the street and pausing every once in a while to take in the sights that she had only read about or seen on television.

_Now Hiring: Professional Dancers!_

A tall red and black sign caught Ophelia's attention across the street. It hung over a tall, slender black door and a window that was covered with pink and black drapes of a satiny texture. Ophelia crossed the street toward the intriguing place with a group of French tourists.

As she approached the small cove-like entrance, Ophelia could immediately hear jazz music, laughter, and the clinking of china. She slipped through the half-open doorway and into an enormous foyer, decorated with feathers and beads, all deep reds and pinks in color.

A man in a tuxedo with a curled mustache and hair the color of the sun stepped out from behind a curtain, followed by a blast of sweetly scented air. He held himself aloft for a moment, then his stature fell as he looked her over, obviously not pleased at her common appearance.

"Welcome to The Black Cat," he plastered on another smile, this one fake and oozing sarcasm, "My name is Vince, and I would _love_ to help you today. Table for one?"

Ophelia shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, "Actually, I saw your sign outside and was wanting to look into applying."

"An American, eh?" Vince raised his finely plucked eyebrows, "Haven't had anyone from across the pond come in today." Ophelia could just feel his eyes boring into her.

"I just moved here actually," she cleared her throat, clutching her purse for dear life, "with my brother. He's a teacher."

"Well isn't that just fun," Vince rolled his eyes and pulled back the beaded curtain that hung beside him, "Go on in. You'll find the line to the right, Miss..."

"Nora," she called over her shoulder as she ducked beneath the bead curtain, "Nora Spencer." She was immediately hit with the smell of overbearing perfume. The space was simply an enormous room, with a long mirrored bar at one end and a stage at the other. The walls were covered with beads, feathers, and draped bits of fabric similar to the foyer, only they reached up to and covered the ceiling, giving the impression that the entire place was swaddled in the stuff. Between the bar and the stage were a series of tables and chairs, most round and decorated with candles, and others roped off in corners, decorated with flowers and buckets of champagne bottles. Booths lined the walls as well, looping around to the bar and back into a room that Ophelia could not see. Two women sat at the table closest to the stage, clipboards in their hands and frowns on their faces.

The stage itself was enormous. An entire grid of lights dangled above and in front of it, and it looped halfway around the room, jutting out into two identical catwalks on either side. In the center, under the scrutiny of the spotlight, was a tall, slender redhead who grinding herself on a chair.

_Oh, so it's this type of dancing,_ Ophelia frowned to herself. She began to slip nonchalantly from the room, but one of the women in the front turned and gestured for her to get in line. She watched until Ophelia had joined the eclectic line, though reluctantly.

Soon, Ophelia's conscience had begun to scream at her, insisting that this was a seedy place not to be trifled with. The types of girls that the two women in the front seemed to take to simply stood up onstage and wound their bodies around languidly. Anyone who attempted a real style of dance was brushed off nearly immediately. The next girl to clomp up onstage immediately began tap dancing at high speeds, earning muffled guffaws and only a few claps from the rest of the line. She left quickly, her head hung and her face flushing.

Ophelia wrung her hands; she had not come in prepared to actually _do_ anything. It was her first day in London, and she had only wanted to scout the place out. In fact, she was still quite sore. Before leaving, she had downed a full dose of pain pills and had stuffed the small orange bottle in her purse. As the line inched forward, she grew more and more tempted to pop a few more.

One by one, girls got up onto the stage and fumbled their way thorough their routines; it was clear that not many of them had prepared much of anything or had much experience with dance at all. They all danced to the same song, which put the girls at the back of a line at a bit of an advantage. The girl before Ophelia was excellent. She gave her name: Gigi French. It sounded fake, but Ophelia did not say a word. Her routine involved the chair, but was not nearly as disturbingly raunchy as some of the others. She received a light round of applause, and in response she flipped her long, black hair over her shoulder and strutted away, not waiting for any further feedback.

"Next!" the woman who had urged her into the line called her up. Ophelia took a deep breath and ascended the stairs, pulling the strap of her purse from over her head and dropping it to the side.

The two women were starkly different. On the left sat a tall, austere statue of a lady, with flowing platinum hair and thick theatrical makeup. The other was shorter and significantly more voluptuous. A small birth mark was dotted onto her cheek with eyeliner, and her chocolate hair was sprayed up into a bouffant. She looked Ophelia up and down as she took her place on the stage, obviously not pleased with her lack of preparedness.

"Name?" the blonde looked up from her clipboard.

"Nora Spencer," Ophelia tried her best to sound perky.

"An American," the woman raised her eyebrows, scribbling something down on her clipboard, "So tell us a little something about yourself, Nora."

"Well," Ophelia wracked her brain for something interesting to say, "I studied dance in school. I don't really know what to tell you; my brother and I moved to Cambridge to start over."

"And what brings you to our humble establishment?"

"Just... if I'm going to do anything with this new opportunity, it's going to be performing. We moved here to start over, and I intend to do it right."

"Hmph," the woman scribbled something else, then gestured to a man who stood just offstage, "Music."

The song began after a moment's lag. It was a Bjork tune, and thankfully her contemporary dance teacher had been wholly obsessed with the oddball singer. Ophelia slipped her shoes off and spun immediately into the dance that she had learned to the song a year before.

For the first time in a long while, Ophelia let herself get lost in the music. It wasn't about the tricks and turns, but about expressing the release that she felt in the midst of each movement. In the moment, she forgot Hannibal. She forgot all of her father's crimes, and that the one man she had ever felt for had killed him to prevent him from killing _her_ instead. The memories of her sorority sisters melted away, as did Will, Alana, and Freddie. All she felt was the music, no matter how strange.

"Nora," the blonde woman's voice cut through her trance. Ophelia stopped short, immediately embarrassed; the music had been off for a few seconds now. She stood in the center of the stage, suddenly feeling rather small while the woman wrote a few things down on the clipboard.

"Sorry," Ophelia muttered, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes on her.

"Don't apologize, kid," the blonde woman stood, tearing the paper off her clipboard and handing it to Ophelia, "be back here tomorrow at noon for a callback. Wear better dancing clothes, yeah? We'll be moving a lot."

Ophelia was dumbstruck for a moment, then she grinned broadly, "Yeah, yeah I will! Thanks!"

She rushed from the stage, grabbing her purse and disappearing through the bead curtains. The piece of paper was scrawled with notes, all positive, as well as a name and a telephone number.

"Elle Maddox, owner," the card read, followed by a small printed black cat, whose tail swirled up and around the top of the paper.

Ophelia spent the rest of the day feeling rather light. On the first real day of her new life, she had stumbled unwittingly into an excellent opportunity, and she intended to make the best of it. Will would be glad; dancers in clubs such as those made excellent money. Sure, it wasn't the most upstanding job, but it was still dancing. And perhaps it would help her to stay underground. At least for a while.

She wandered to the park, where a small group of children was squished onto a bench, feeding a family of birds that were hopping around merrily on the pavement. They were colorful little birds, all shades of yellows, blues, and reds. All save one tiny brown bird, its wing bent unnaturally out to the side. It hopped around the outside of the group, pecking desperately at crumbs that it would not possibly hope to reach. Ophelia sighed, squatting down and taking the bird into her hands. It did not protest as she carried it into the grass and set it down amongst some flowers. She pulled the remnants of a granola bar from the depths of her bang and sprinkled it before the sparrow, who happily plucked up the crumbs, its broken wing fluttering with the utmost fragility.

* * *

**Hello readers! I'm sorry the wait for this lame chapter was so long, but you'll be pleased to know that I've been working hard on later chapters. I originally planned the whole fic out, ending it at 26 chapters, but I was hit by some inspiration and have been expanding the story. It's not finished, but I will continue to update what I already have. You'll like it, I think! And as always, thank you for reading and reviewing! :)**


	19. Chapter 19

Time passed unbearably slowly for Hannibal Lecter. Minutes turned to hours, hours dragged into days, and days seemed an eternity. A month felt even longer. The stark lack of life in Hannibal's home left him feeling drained. Without passion. His patients and colleagues noticed his slow disintegration more and more every day, noting that even his usually immaculate physical appearance had begun to suffer.

After hiring a private investigator to track down his lost Ophelia, Hannibal's life had begun to revolve around their brief and infrequent phone calls. He would stop appointments mid-sentence in order to answer a call, only to be disappointed by the lack of turnout. The investigator worked diligently, though he would not disclose the methods that he used to collect his information. What little information he had. Hannibal nearly always had to bite his tongue to keep from berating the man. He was sure that it couldn't be _that _difficult to find one girl.

Alana had been of little comfort to Hannibal. He had always considered her a colleague. A friend, even. But she had been distant and quiet, as if she wanted no hand in helping Hannibal find Ophelia. This only fueled his suspicions that she had a hand in it, whether Ophelia had left on her own or not.

Free time was spent sitting alone in the dining room, sipping wine. He sat at the head of the table, the old Chi Omega shirt folded neatly over the back of the chair at the other end, facing him as if Ophelia still wore it. His phone sat nearby at all times. But rarely did it ring. Hannibal carried on like this for a month, and he had no intention of changing this pattern until a significant development was made.

Hannibal received the call he had been waiting for exactly five weeks after Ophelia's disappearance. It was late, later than any reasonable person should have been awake. But there Hannibal sat, at the head of the table, sipping his wine. His hair fell in a messy mat before his eyes, and he had only bothered to pull on a pair of silk pajama bottoms after his lackluster shower. But as the phone began to ring, his eyes lit up and he began to resemble himself again, if only slightly.

"News?" he barked, when the phone whirred to life beside him.

"This time, yes," the gravelly voice of the investigator came through the line in spotty static, "in the form of hospital security tapes. Footage from the night your girl was brought in. She had a number of visitors that were not listed in the security records. You may need to take a look."

"How soon can I get the tapes?" he shot to his feet, not expecting to go anywhere, but needing desperately to move.

"They'll be in a box on your porch in the morning," the voice on the other end began to fade, "get some sleep, Doctor Lecter, and you'll get your footage." And without another word, the man hung up, leaving Hannibal in stark silence. He looked at his watch; it was already close to sunrise.

Hannibal trudged into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch, wine glass still in hand. He lay his head back against the pillows and inhaled deeply. Seeing the tapes would be the first time in over a month that he would have laid eyes on Ophelia. She was alive in the tapes. As for her fate in reality, he was not so sure.

Word of her well-being would have to be enough, just for a while. First and foremost, selfish desires aside, Hannibal truly cared for her safety. While she was in his care, he knew that he had walked a fine line between what he should and should not do with Ophelia. He had thought, at first, that she would just become another business card to add to his box. He was sure enough of it, in fact, that he had drawn her. But instead, she had gotten under his skin. She had infected him.

Hannibal hated the fact that he had allowed her to wriggle herself underneath his mask. It had always been so meticulously protected; only Will Graham had ever come close to seeing the truth. And part of him had wanted it to happen. The sick thing about killers and psychopaths, he knew, was their morbid desire to be found out. To be understood. To be embraced. Will Graham had almost reached Hannibal in that way, but failed, cracking under the pressure of the knowledge. But Ophelia had fluttered in, embracing him without a care. Perhaps it was because she did not know the truth. Perhaps if she _had_ known the truth, she would have left sooner.

Hannibal slammed the wine glass down onto the table, a bit of the crimson liquid splashing over the edge and onto the table. He leaned forward, his pounding head falling into his hands and resting there. Inhaling deeply, he wracked his brain for any plausible reason why she would want to disappear. This had been something he had contemplated many a time, and still he could come up with no answer.

He allowed himself only an hour or so of sleep, leaning against the back of the couch again. There were no dreams to be had, for before he knew it, reality was wrenching him back into the day.

The tapes were, as the investigator had promised, outside Hannibal's door in an unmarked cardboard box. He cast a few wary glances around in the early morning light before scooping up the box and hurrying inside.

Sure enough, three visitors had been to see Ophelia on the day of her hospitalization, and only one of them was authorized. Freddie Lounds, the insufferable woman, had been to see her first, waking Ophelia from her drug-induced sleep. He watched as she muttered to Ophelia; he cursed the tape for not coming with sound.

Hannibal watched himself come in and out of the room, followed by nurses, doctors, and Alana Bloom. He had known she was there; Alana had brought Ophelia flowers, something he had kicked himself for not doing.

The next person to enter the room made Hannibal's heart drop into his stomach. There in the doorway, dressed in his signature bedraggled garb, stood Will Graham. Hannibal need not wonder at what they spoke of. It was quite obviously scrawled on Ophelia's face. She knew. She had to. Will had relinquished any and all information unto her, by the looks of it.

He cursed, slamming his hand down onto the table and just barely missing his wine glass. Will and Alana had been working together, that much was certain. If time and observation proved correct, Alana had gotten Will released just before bringing him to the hospital to taint Ophelia's mind. They were both culprits. But how was Freddie Lounds involved in all of this? Perhaps she acted as a messenger, or a watchman, tracking Ophelia's every move for Alana and Will. If this was true, they must all be aware of Hannibal's secret. One of them, at least.

If he could get Will's location out of Alana, Hannibal knew that he would find Ophelia. He leapt into action, this new development acting as caffeine and jolting him into motion. With no scheduled appointments until the next day, Hannibal took confidence in the fact that he would make great strides in finding his sparrow.

He rushed upstairs, cleaning himself up in a whirlwind of newfound vim and vigor. Before a new hour even had time to begin, Hannibal was making his way through the streets of Baltimore, heading in the direction of Alana Bloom's home. She would not be there, he knew, for she would have already left for work at this hour. This would be a prime opportunity for Hannibal to search. She must have left a clue behind somewhere.

Hannibal was greeted genially by the dogs, who were quite familiar with him being around their owners, both past and present. He entered the house using the spare key underneath a pot of begonias, calming the dogs with friendly pats to the head as he went.

The dogs followed Hannibal as he made his way through each room, digging through drawers and filing through cabinets as he went. Overall, he turned up nothing but receipts, grocery lists, and faded business cards. She seemed spotless.

But, out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal spotted a bit of shredded paper at the base of the full trash bin. It must have fallen in a hasty attempt to dispose of it, Hannibal figured. He stooped to pick it up, turning it over. There was enough of it to see what it had once been: an American Airlines ticket sleeve, printed on which were four small serial numbers. Hannibal lifted the lid of the trashcan, but was left disappointed by the lack of evidence that he found there. Alana had since attempted to cover her tracks, but what he had been able to find would suffice for now.

Hannibal returned to his office; it was where he felt he did his best thinking. With the scrap of evidence at his fingertips, he opened up his laptop and began typing away. Soon enough, he had been able to pair the serial number with a flight. It had left five weeks ago that very day.

"London, then?" Hannibal's mouth curled into a snarl, "I'm on my way."


	20. Chapter 20

"Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a good little girl. And they called her... _Elle_," Ophelia watched as Elle Maddox strutted up and down the makeshift aisles of the dressing room, "a stunner with impossibly long lashes, loud as hell makeup, and a sequined, skin-tight band-aid of a dress," Elle paused, holding for whistles from the girls as they dressed, "She works the tight stage of the club, toying with the audience. Burlesque!" Elle struck up her best jazz hands, throwing her hair back and fluttering her artificial eyelashes.

Vince appeared from behind a curtain, throwing a poof of glitter into the air, as if he had been instructed to do so. Then he disappeared again, as the girls laughed, though their corsets and tiny dresses would have them do otherwise.

Elle continued, "Some say she died of neglect. Abandonment. Old age," some of the girls booed, "But like I say... no matter how hard you try, you can't keep a good girl down! And I've got a load of 'em."

Sixteen gorgeous, leggy girls broke into cheers as they fought over mirrors, hairspray, and boxes of stage glitter. Fishnet stockings and oceans upon oceans of feather boas covered the dressing room above the stage. It was completely decadent, and completely cabaret.

"Come to think of it," Vince reappeared, carrying an armful of accessories and corsets, divvying out his wares to the girls, "none of them are all that good... which isn't all that bad." Ophelia laughed as one of the girls, Lindsay, tried to lasso Vince with a garter.

"Eight shows a week," Elle narrated as the girls put the finishing touches on their outfits and scuttled toward the stage in impossibly high heels, "sixteen fabulous girls, and thirty two towers of luscious legs! You go work that stage, you bastions of bodacious elegance!" She spanked Vince on the behind as he passed, heading for the bar to keep the bartenders in line. They were a rowdy bunch of twenty-somethings, and Vince couldn't help but hang around them.

"Here, Nora," a small, plump blonde pushed a long mirror over to Ophelia, nearly knocking her lipstick and mascara from the table, "It'll help." The mirror was lined with rows of white powder, which seemed to glow almost ethereally under the lights of the dressing room. The girls seemed to worship the stuff, using it every night before a show, and even more often at the parties that followed.

Ophelia grinned, "Thanks, Georgie." She leaned down to the mirror and plugged one nostril. Inhaling deeply, she felt the white powder shoot up into her nose and leave a tingling sensation running up and down her spine. It was a habit she had been forced into, but it had taken ahold of her. And Georgie was right. It did help. She immediately felt as if she could take on the world, conquering one man at a time with her ridiculously high heels and her glaringly bright lipstick.

"Places, girls, we start in two!" Elle called, her theatricality replaced with business, "Nora, you ready for your first show?"

"You bet!" Ophelia leapt to her feet and strutted to Elle, who held her arms outstretched, "Do I look alright?" She felt oddly confident in her blue corset, paired with fishnets and sky-high heels. Normally, she would be mortified to appear in front of people in such a getup, but the risque wardrobe of the Black Cat had grown on her. In fact, the darkly glamorous life had never been so appealing. Sleeping all day, dancing at night both onstage and in the dark apartments of the other girls; it felt as if she had truly been allowed to come out of her shell. Now, she felt as if she was never fully dressed without her corset.

"You look _fabulous_, darling," Elle fluffed Ophelia's newly dyed and done up hair, "I knew that was the color for you. Assets, assets." She had taken Ophelia, just days before, to a salon, where she had prohibited her from looking in the mirror until they were finished tinkering away at her head. Within an hour, Ophelia had been given a full head of bright ombre hair, that was red at the roots, turned an orange hue the color of embers, and then blonde again. The other girls had compared it to fire, and Ophelia could not complain.

After months of rehearsal, Elle had deemed Ophelia ready to perform, and they had spent the entire day rearranging the lineup so that she would be a featured performer. Most of the girls had been rather impressed with Ophelia's dance ability, but others had been perturbed by Elle's budding favoritism. She had earned a nickname almost immediately, a privilege that the most seasoned employees earned. Ophelia had just figured it was because she was something new, but she could not complain. The spotlight had always been her place. She had been dubbed "Firecracker" within the first week of rehearsals, and the name had changed her for the better. It made her fierce, sensual, and exciting. She had never felt so desired, so wanted.

And now it was time for Ophelia to put all her work to the test.

Convincing Will of the legitimacy of her job had been a challenge. Naturally, he had an aversion to the whole atmosphere of the place. The words "stripper" and "exploited" had been tossed around, but Ophelia had stood fast. She was convinced that it was not nearly as awful as people made it out to be. They were really dancing, and they were really entertaining people, even if it was through the medium of corsets, glitter, and the occasional uninvited ass-grab.

"Welcome to The Black Cat," Elle's voice floated through the packed lounge and she slunk across the stage as, behind her, the girls all gathered at the end of the catwalk, lit by footlights, moving in place to the beat of the music played by the bawdy quartet on the opposite end of the room, "Say hello to Scarlett, Coco, Lindsay, Gigi, Georgie..." she rattled off the list of names, ending with, "and the newest addition to the family, our little American firecracker... Nora!" Ophelia struck a pose and the crowd, mostly male, roared and thumped on their tables as the spotlight illuminated her. She felt the oh-so-familiar pump of adrenaline begin to build in her chest.

The footlights flared as Elle sashayed from the stage. The girls were all suddenly bathed in pink and red light as they hit each beat with sharp, risqué movements as they moved downstage toward the audience. Each of them, standing in a line, kicked their legs into the air, shimmied, and spun to the beat, the audience cheering and whistling. Waiters and waitresses hurried back and forth from the bar, to the tables, to the booths, and back again. The show flowed without a hitch, number after number, Ophelia staying with the rhythm of the process with poise that oozed magnetic confidence. She truly hit her stride, and before she knew it, the last number had ended and the curtain had closed. Though the music had returned to a slow, jazzy candor, Ophelia's head still pounded and her entire body vibrated.

"Oh... my... _GOD_!" Ophelia cried, throwing her hands into the air and shimmying as she and the rest of the girls rushed back into the dressing room. Feathers, glitter, and sequins flew through the air; the show had been their biggest and most successful yet.

"Fantastic job, girls, just absolutely brilliant!" Elle appeared at the door to the dressing room, her cheeks flushed pink from her frequent visits to the bar during the show, "now get on out there and unwind with the clients! You've earned it! And cocktails on me!"

The girls cheered and began to disperse, some pulling out cigarettes and lighting them. Ophelia bent down to fix herself in the mirror.

"Hey, Nora," Elle clapped her on the back, "There's someone here who asked for you personally. He's in the roped-off booth in the back." She wiggled her eyebrows and bit her lip, but Ophelia's stomach dropped.

"Who is it?" she stood and turned to face Elle, who towered over her in platform boots. Her mind swam with blood-red images of Hannibal's face.

"Some guy," Elle shrugged, "He's American, though. I think he's some big businessman in New York, or something. Big, burly guy. Go talk to him! Maybe he'll invest."

Ophelia gulped, "Okay. Okay, sure." And with that, Elle was off, dancing and shimmying toward Vince, who had appeared in the doorway with a tray of shot glasses filled with pink liquid.

Before she entered the jungle of people, surely walking to her demise, Ophelia leaned back against the table, her hand fumbling over pallets of eyeshadow and tubes of lipstick. She took a deep breath. If Hannibal had found her here, what would she do? What would Will do? Perhaps he had already gotten to Will. Hannibal would at least have to spare Will. He had done nothing wrong.

Ophelia sucked in a deep breath, puffing out her chest against the restraints of the corset. She strutted through the curtain to the main room, an air of false confidence about her. The room was pounding with the music of the band onstage, and the sound of alcohol-induced revelry nearly drowned it all out. Ophelia slipped through the maze of tables, waving and smiling at club patrons who called out to her. She felt the tips of her fingers tingle, and she could not discern whether it was from anticipation or the drugs she had partaken in before the show.

The red booth reserved for people of some importance was roped off at the back of the room and was surrounded by a velvet curtain for privacy. Usually it was occupied by business tycoons keen on escaping the monotony of their daily lives. But tonight, Ophelia knew not what awaited her there. And she truly did not want to know.

But, when she pulled back the red curtain, she did not find Hannibal Lecter there. She exhaled heavily as she took in the large, bulky man who sat observing her as well. He was one of the most enormous men she had ever seen, with tattoos covering much of his skin, even on his bald head.

"Nora Spencer, the American firecracker," the man greeted her with a rough voice befitting his appearance, "I am so glad you made time to come see me. The show was just spectacular, I have to say."

"Well, thank you, Mister..." Ophelia's speech trailed off.

"Vegas," the man extended a hand, "Believe it or not, my surname is Vegas. It's a curse, really, despite what you may think. Sit, sit! Let me buy you a drink." As Ophelia slid into the booth beside him, a waiter appeared, taking Vegas's order, which was quite a hefty one.

"So," Ophelia crossed her legs under the table as she took a sip of the drink that appeared before her, "a fellow American. What brings you to London? And to The Black Cat?" She flipped her ombre hair over her shoulder and sniffed, subtly rubbing the underside of her nose.

Vegas shrugged, "A bit of culture, I suppose. I do business in New York, see, and believe it or not, it can get a bit boring. The nightlife falls into a pattern of repetition; you can't get much like this in New York. Less taste in the States, I think. A friend recommended the shows here, and I have to say I am not disappointed in the least."

Ophelia had already begun to feel the drinks taking an effect on her, "I am so, so glad you chose The Black Cat, Mister Vegas. It's great to see a fellow red, white, and blue once in a while, and I don't see many of them." Ophelia took another large drink, at the prompting of Vegas. A few of her fellow dancers waved to her from across the room and she leaned out of the booth and waved enthusiastically, not noticing as Vegas popped a small pink pill into the already fizzing cocktail.

"So, tell me," Vegas said slowly, deliberately, as Ophelia took another giant swig of the fizzing drink, "How did you come to find yourself in London? You're, what, twenty one? Twenty two? You should be in college on a beach somewhere."

Ophelia squinted, the drink immediately taking her thoughts and turning them to meaningless mush. She took a deep breath, trying her best to be coherent, "Moved here with my brother. He's a teacher. Real, real smart. Yeah, that's it pretty much."

Vegas hummed noncommittally, watching for a long while as Ophelia sipped her drink. He could immediately see that the drink was going straight to her head, and with the drugs that she had obviously taken, she was completely slurred. His demeanor suddenly turned brusque and businesslike, and much less charmingly charismatic.

"Tell me, Nora," Vegas leaned into her, taking and holding her attention on his face, "Why are you _really_ here? Open up to me. I'm a friend now."

Ophelia sighed, "It's a complicated story, Mister Vegas. Not exactly fun talk."

He sat in silence, watching her think, as the music shook the next round of drinks that had been brought to the table.

"Were you... running from something?" Vegas suggested, "Perhaps you were coerced into coming here."

"Yeah, yeah I was," Ophelia looked at Vegas through her blurred eyes as if they were as clear as crystal, "There was this... guy. That's how all the stories go, right? Guy and girl can't be together so girl leaves, blah, blah, blah... _My_ story is funny because the guy I'm in love with wants to kill me!" Ophelia burst into loud, almost manic laughter, "Isn't that just messed up? I thought that he felt the same way, but he wants to fucking _murder_ me! And I love him. Messed up. But that's me. Just messed up." Ophelia's words were becoming more and more slurred, less and less intelligible.

"It gives you depth of character," Vegas assured her with a sugar-coated falseness, "You said you came here with your brother?"

Ophelia snorted, shaking her head, "We don't even look alike!"

"So... not your brother?"

"Nah," Ophelia leaned back, trying desperately to regain control of the words that were spilling from her mouth, "I mean... no. Yeah. No."

Vegas took a deep breath, then abruptly changed the subject, "You have very green eyes, Nora. Any Irish relatives down the line?"

Ophelia shrugged, "I think maybe."

"Good girl," Vegas began to slide out of the booth, "Come with me, alright? I'm going to get you home safe. Wait right here, I've got a check to write for your boss."

Ophelia waited as Vegas weaved through the tables toward Elle, who was in the midst of schmoozing a group of elderly, wealthy-looking women. He pulled Elle away from the gaggle, reaching into his pocket and extracting a rather thick check book. Elle's eyes widened and flicked over to where Ophelia sat. She took the check from Vegas's hands as if it would explode, then scurried off, presumably to find Vince. Vegas returned to Ophelia immediately, leading her to the door and out into the street. He covered her with his jacket; she had still not changed out of her costume. She began to protest, suggesting she return to collect her things, but Vegas nearly shoved her in the direction of the train.

After a bit of digging, he managed to get her to reveal where she would be going: to Cambridge. Vegas bought her a ticket and, after receiving quite a few dirty looks, helped her board the train. He sat beside her, latching onto her as she stumbled around in the compartment as the train began to move. She babbled to him about The Black Cat and about the girls there, her head resting on his shoulder as they chugged along, and soon they found themselves at the dark Cambridge station. Vegas looked down at his watch; it was nearly two in the morning.

Will Graham stood on the platform, waiting, when the doors slid open. Below his glasses, his eyes burned with anger, and his mouth curled downward in a frown. He looked as if he had just rolled out of bed.

"Jack!" Ophelia threw herself forward, landing squarely in Will's arms, "What are you doing here?" She hiccuped, and Will pulled her upright, though she towered over him in her heels.

"I got a call from Elle," he glared at Vegas, "She was worried about Nora."

"Hey, no worries," Vegas held his hands up in surrender, "I just wanted to help our mutual friend here get home safe."

"I could have taken care of that," Will stepped in front of Ophelia, who had grown entirely focused on a single curl that hung before her eyes.

"Sure," Vegas smiled, "I guess I should be going, then. I got what I came for." He turned and stepped back onto the train, just as the doors closed behind him.

"Bye, bye!" Ophelia called, waving her hand in the general direction of where Vegas had disappeared.

Will grabbed Ophelia's wrist and began to cart her toward where his car was parked, "Come on. What the hell happened to you? What are you _wearing_? You reek of booze and smoke."

Ophelia sniffed and rubbed the bottom of her nose, "I was at work, _bro_."

"I don't like that place," Will nearly shoved her down into the car, "especially when it involves guys like that. Who was that, anyway?"

"His last name is Vegas. How cool is that?" Ophelia struggled to buckle her seatbelt; her vision was beginning to blur and her head was beginning to pound. She knew she would need a fix in the morning.

"You could have been hurt," Will muttered, "Or found out." He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and stared straight ahead. Time and time again, he had made it clear that he did not approve of her job. It was dangerous. It was provocative. And most of all it was stupid. Ophelia had come home in this state before, but this was the first time that her boss had even feared for her safety. Clearly, something was different about this instance.

The moonlight shone in beams through the window and illuminated the harsh, greenish pallor of her skin. Ophelia had lost considerable weight and luster, and she tried her best to cover it up with layers of makeup and outrageous attire. She was miserable; that much was clear to Will, no matter how hard she tried to hide it for his sake. Her job was a miserable excuse for a living and a miserable excuse for dance, as she tried so hard to pass it off as. The Black Cat might as well have been a meat auction. And if the past weeks had gone to show anything, she would be back in this state within twenty-four hours.

Will knew why she did it, though. He knew why she had taken to drinking, to partying with her "friends", and to the illegal substances that she clearly was hooked on. She talked in her sleep. Ophelia had conversations with an invisible presence about the most trivial things, as if sitting with an old friend. Sometimes the conversations would end with her in a frenzy though, crying and sweating through her pajamas. Will would shake her awake, only to have her not remember what her dream had concerned. Will was sure, though, of what she dreamt.

In her dreams, she was with Hannibal. In her dreams she was not afraid of him. But Will knew that could never be a reality, as did Ophelia. Instead, she had replaced Hannibal with promiscuity and drug abuse.

Will did not know which would kill her first.


End file.
